Sacrilege
by xiphus
Summary: Dragonborn, the great Nord hero destined to defeat the World-Eater. The last Dragonborn was the great Talos himself! Sacrilege was what it was and Caril couldn't help but laugh upon learning he was the next Dragonborn. The irony of it all.
1. Prologue

Disclaimer: This is _**fan**_fiction . net, it is assumed that I own nothing.

So, Thalmor. Yeah...

Bethesda made a good job at making those guys really hate-able except, being the person who likes villains almost consistently as much as the heroes, I've grown a grudging fondness of the Thalmor. Especially Ondolemar, I just can't get the guts to kill him, even though I go on rampages with the wandering Justiciars in Skyrim.

So, this is the spawn of my bizarre mind. What if the Dovahkiin was a Thalmor agent?

* * *

**23 Sun's Dusk, 4E 200**

Caril snorted and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head. He angrily watched the letter sitting neatly on his desk as if daring it to act against him. This was ridiculous. He stood up in a huff and stomped over to his window, where he gazed out over the bustling streets of Alinor. Skyrim, of all places!

"How ridiculous," he murmured softly.

Why was he put under the charge of Elenwen, First Emissary to Skyrim, of all people? Skyrim! He was outraged.

"Maybe I'll complain to Ralius about this, get my position changed," he shook his head, "No. I can't do that."

He wandered back to his chair and sank into it, staring blankly at his letter. Absurd. Unreasonable. Why did they do this to him? They could not just interrupt his research at this critical time! He was verging on a breakthrough!

"Stop moping about."

Caril didn't bother turning around to face his office door, he could recognize that smug voice anywhere, even after years apart. He picked up his letter between two fingers, twirled it around lazily, and said, "Skyrim."

"So I heard," Ondolemar crossed in front of Caril's line of vision and plucked the letter out of his hands. He casually leaned against the desk while skimming over the contents of the letter, "Good place to go, Skyrim."

"It _snows_."

"Give it up, you are not getting out of this," Ondolemar returned the letter to Caril.

Ondolemar had already been stationed in Skyrim for some time and had only temporarily returned the Isle to sort out a minor familial issue. He and Caril had known each other for many years, having met during their training to become part of the reigning Thalmor government. Coming from similar backgrounds, they got on well, however their paths in the Thalmor diverged just before the start of the Great War. Both managed to avoid being involved directly in the war, thankfully. Ondolemar managed to worm his way out with a slick tongue, the higher-ups had pulled him off for a career in politics and away from the war. Caril had been tasked as an archivist, falling in the category of scholarly wizard rather than a Destruction or Restoration specialist needed on the front. Ever since then, he'd been working in the Dominion's archives doing basically as he pleased with the occasional assignment drifting his way. How had he been chosen to go to Skyrim, of all people?

"Tell me about Skyrim, Ondolemar," said Caril bitterly, "Tell me how awful the barbaric Nord 'culture' is, tell me how much I will hate it." Ondolemar grabbed the chair on the opposite side of the room, dragged it in front of Caril's desk, and sat down, eyeing Caril with a calculating look. Caril sighed, "Terrible. I am a librarian, Ondolemar, not an emissary."

"Librarian," Ondolemar snorted and shook his head, "You are no more a librarian than I am a mere justiciar."

"Sure, sure."

Ondolemar had been such a good politician that, after the White-Gold Concordat was signed and the real politics began, Ondolemar had shot upwards through the rankings. He was only a regular justiciar for three years when many other mer spent their whole lives striving to become the head of their own group of three. Ondolemar was stationed in Skyrim as a lower Emissary and, after that incident in Morthal that killed a fair few high ranking Thalmor officials, he was placed as Second Emissary to Skyrim, under the command of only the First Emissary, Elenwen, and the leaders of the Dominion itself.

"Why chose me, though?" asked Caril, shaking his head, "I'm not a soldier and I'm not a bureaucrat, Ondolemar, no offense."

Ondolemar smirked, "None taken. I do not have the faintest idea why you were chosen. A large group of wizards are being sent to Skyrim, I suppose they chose you to be among them, although why they chose someone with no experience on the front is beyond me."

"Because I am more competent than the rest of them?"

"That is likely," agreed Ondolemar, "Maybe they will be sending you to teach the useless fools how to do their jobs."

Caril chuckled quietly, "A little while back, I saw one of the apprentices light his shoes on fire after attempting to conjure a Frost Atronach. A _Frost_ Atronach. Much too advanced for him; thankfully it was a scroll conjure and did not have the power to cause any real harm if it went wrong, which it did. I could not believe he was among the best of the apprentices when I looked into the incident."

"I repeat, useless," Ondolemar fiddled with a spindly, silver device lying on Caril's desk, lots of moving parts to occupy himself with, "Maybe you are replacing that Ancano fellow in Winterhold. Reports have been giving all indication something in the College is making his sanity slip. Shame, he used to be as good as you."

Caril gingerly pried his miniature Dwemer Spider from Ondolemar's hands. After working on it for over a year, he had yet to make it work again after it was brought to him, he would not have Ondolemar lay waste to what progress he had made, "So I have heard, he held my same position in Skywatch, yes? I never had the pleasure."

"It is not a pleasure anymore," said Ondolemar exasperatedly, "Every report he sends in talks about a growing magical unrest in the College and that he feels that his own power is growing but not because of his own studying. Each successive report becomes more and more disjointed as well, his last report was of something called the Augur of Dunlain, none of the historians in the Embassy have even the smallest clue as to what _that_ could be. The last I saw of him, he looked seemed quite pale—ill, in fact. He had a strange look about his eyes."

"Perhaps."

"When do you leave?"

"First Seed, when are you returning?"

Ondolemar slumped in his chair, "Middas."

"That soon? To think I entertained the idea that I would be able to spend some time getting reacquainted with you after these years."

Ondolemar smiled bitterly, "I think we will be seeing much more of each other in the years to come."

"So it seems," agreed Caril.

**24 First Seed, 4E 201**

Caril wrapped his fur-lined cloak tight around his thin body and threw the hood over his head as he trudged up the steps to the Thalmor Embassy with seven other Thalmor agents. It was unbearably cold in Haafingar, even the hardened gate guards of the Embassy were standing there shivering in the knee-deep snow.

"So remind me again why the purity of an unfilled Soul Gem affects the energy waste of charges on weapons?" The young boy to his left asked.

Caril sighed, he had been entertaining the bright-faced, young wizard for hours on end. He admired the boy for his inquisitiveness but he was a bit thick-skulled. He was asking about some of the finer aspects of advanced Enchanting, things Caril's predecessors spent their entire lives researching. He didn't expect the boy to understand much, he was from Lillandril, a place not known for it's foremost Enchanting scholars—or it's foremost anything, really.

Thankfully, he didn't have time to give his long-winded answer, they reached the top steps of the Embassy and were being led inside. It was like a breath of fresh air, the building was Aldmeri on the inside as well as out. He was tired of seeing the wooden shacks full of furs that the Nords called "stores" and "houses." The furniture was elegant and thin-legged with darkly stained wood. The chairs had brass feet, the tables—marble tops.

At the front of the entrance hall stood a high-ranking soldier clad in a full set of glass armor. He had seen the war, judging from the severe look of the soldier's face and the pink scars marring his golden skin of his cheek. Flanking the official were two significantly younger soldiers wearing the standard elven armor and wielding worn steel swords.

Caril, unfamiliar with the strict protocols of the Aldmeri military, found himself the only one slouching—by comparison to those around him—and informally observing his surroundings. Even the young wizard boy had straightened up to his full height in the presence of a superior officer.

The brutish—for an Altmer—soldier walked up to Caril and scoffed in disgust, "How have we fallen so far to let someone like you—a disgrace to the Altmer—enter these halls?"

Caril was caught off-guard by the insult, apparently the rest of the young wizards were as well. All Altmer wizards who had stepped out from under rocks in the last thirty years knew who he was and respected his name. Caril narrowed his eyes and stared down his nose at the soldier, "Excuse me? A disgrace? Are you not aware of who I am?"

The soldier was about to give his response when something behind Caril caught his eye and his mouth abruptly closed.

"A librarian is what you are."

Caril spun around and shot Ondolemar a snide look. The Second Emissary grinned at the sight of his friend. All three soldiers were staring at Ondolemar, dumbstruck.

"Don't try to be funny with me." Caril couldn't help but smile as well. In the few days they had to be reacquainted with one another, they found they had just as much to talk about as when they were in school together, "Do you never smile?" He gestured at the dumbstruck soldiers, "Or have they never heard you crack a joke?"

"I am supposed to fetch you," Ondolemar abruptly changed the subject, "_Not_make a fool of myself in front of the newest trainees."

"Duly noted."

Caril followed Ondolemar down a narrow corridor after ducking behind the bar, avoiding all eye-contact with the young Bosmer servant cleaning the marble floors. Passing quickly through the kitchens and into the living quarters of many of the high-ranking officials, Ondolemar relaxed tenfold and looked back to Caril, "Sharp tongue you have, I'm surprised you didn't end up like me."

"Only sometimes," Caril chuckled quietly, "Ask anyone who has tried to help me with my research, I am not able two form a coherent sentence if I do not write it down beforehand."

"About that," Ondolemar led them into one of the rooms on the top floor of the building, "Congratulations. Too bad your promotion came just before you were to come here, you never got to fully enjoy the benefits."

"Thank you."

Ondolemar gestured for Caril to sit in a chair while he fetched a bottle of wine.

It was a shame that the Institute promoted him to be among the court of Master Wizards three weeks before he was to depart to Skyrim. It was to no one's surprise that he was promoted, though. When Asarin passed away, Caril was really the only one who would logically take his place, being the next leading expert on Enchanting. In fact, most wizards who were not entirely self-obsessed or were not wrapped around the finger of one who was knew he was in line to become the Arch-Wizard of the Institute, having been called a prodigy in all the Schools since he was a young child. He had little competition in that regard. Experience was the one thing he lacked, being forty years younger than the next youngest member of the court.

"Elenwen is the one who knows exactly what you'll be doing," said Ondolemar, handing a goblet of red wine to Caril, "It's from Valenwood, not the piss they serve here, don't worry—and Elenwen, she cannot be bothered to talk to you right now. So I took the liberty to get you away from the children."

"So I am no closer to finding out my assignment?"

"No, unfortunately." They sat in silence for a few moments, then Ondolemar spoke again, "Your passage here was safe, I assume."

"Relatively," Caril shrugged, "A few run-ins with bandits and wolves but little else. Nothing our escort couldn't handle."

"Good," Ondolemar took a sip of his wine, "I have heard the stories of deaths on the way here. Thank Mara I am not the one who deals with those cases, that duty belongs to Rulindil, the Third Emissary."

"It was a long journey," said Caril.

"Especially long since we cannot travel through Hammerfell. Travelling to Skyrim by way of Cyrodil is rather inconvenient." Ondolemar placed his wine on his desk and stood up, crossing over to a drawer which he opened and shifted through for a moment, "You have seen much of Skyrim already, haven't you?"

"I'd say I have seen all of it," said Caril indignantly, "How much can each city vary? All I have seen so far are wooden shacks."

"You will have to visit me in Markarth, then," Ondolemar returned to his desk with a sword in his hands, "Even I find that city beautiful. The people in it are wretched and corrupt but I at least cannot give them credit for building it."

"Markarth is built on a Dwemer ruin, correct?"

"Built on? I wouldn't give them even that much credit. They live in a Dwemer ruin and renamed it Markarth, the only thing they added to the city was the silver mine. Here," Ondolemar offered the sword to Caril, "I took this from the armory for you. You will need it here."

Uncomfortably, Caril accepted the gift. He had never wielded a blade in his life. He drew the sword out of its scabbard and weighed the golden blade in his hands, "I appreciate it, however I d—"

"—I never said you needed to _use_ it, did I?" Ondolemar took the blade out of Caril's hands and slashed it through the air; he looked about as awkward as Caril felt, "Just wear it on your person at all times. The Nords here respect the bite of a blade much more than magic. I carry a flanged mace whenever I am outside the Embassy, that does not mean I have the slightest clue how to wield a mace. It is intimidation, Caril, simple as that. The Nords have not yet learned the superiority of magic and think anyone unarmed is defenseless."

"I am not defenseless," said Caril.

"But allows you to avoid unnecessary trouble," Ondolemar sheathed the sword, "Keep it."

"Thank you, again."

Out of the corner of his eye, Caril saw a guard appear in the doorway, "Elenwen will see you now."

Caril's blood ran cold. Elenwen. He disliked her from the moment he met her. She callously disregarded him, his line of work, and the entire Aldmeri Institute of Arcane Principles upon her visit. Her reason? The Institute had not formally aligned itself with the Thalmor and did not give enough aid during the Great War. Somehow she missed how 90% of the members were dually active in the Thalmor government and the workings of the Institute, Caril included. She personally scorned him for his lack of front-line experience even though his work during the war had been helping provide the most powerful and magicka-efficient Enchanted weapons the military could supply. _His_ weapons and the weapons of _his_ students made the warriors on the front lines that much more likely to win their battles, that much more likely to return at the end of the war. He gave up his beloved job excavating the ruins of the Crystal Tower permanently so he could further the Thalmor cause with his work. Who was she to criticize him? She wasn't more a soldier than he was, she was a politician.

"Caril?" Ondolemar tilted his head a tiny bit, "Are you just going to stand there or are you going to move?"

"Sorry," Caril shook his head, gritted his teeth, and followed the soldier out the door and down the hall. Ondolemar was kind enough to follow him to make sure he didn't cut off the head of the hapless guard in his rage.

They exited the main building and trudged through the snow once again, headed towards Elenwen's quarters. As they reached the locked and guarded door, Ondolemar leaned over and whispered in Caril's ear, "Might consider sheathing your sword now."

Caril glanced down, he hadn't realized he had partially removed the sword from it's scabbard and was gripping it so tightly his knuckles were as white as the snow at his feet. He shook his head again, more vigorously this time, sheathed the sword, and strapped it to his waist, "I—"

"—I've heard it all, Caril." Ondolemar gave him a small push towards the door, "Your drama with Elenwen was before I was stationed here, remember? Just go, it will be simple and painless enough."

Taking a deep breath, Caril nodded and walked into the Solar after the guard. Simple and painless. Simple and painless. He would have to bite his tongue when speaking to her. Simple and painless.

"Caril, I don't believe I have had the pleasure," Elenwen stood up from her desk and held out a hand to Caril, who grudgingly took it. He wasn't sure whether to be upset at the fact that she did not remember how she humiliated him in front of the entire Institute or relieved that she forgot, "Please, sit." She gestured to the chair in front of her desk. Caril sat. "When I went looking for someone to do a very specific job, your Arch-Wizard, Erresen—" Caril nearly scoffed, he didn't need to be reminded of the Arch-Wizard's name, "—spoke of you with high regards. He said you were particularly versatile, even more so than himself, and considered you to be his only logical successor after another decade or so of experience…"

"May I ask where this is headed?" interrupted Caril. He didn't care if he sounded rude in the slightest.

"Straight to the point, then?" Elenwen laughed. To Caril, it sounded artificial and forced, just like her appearance, "I was convinced you were the one for the job. With your Arch-Wizard's imminent retiring—" What? Caril had absolutely no knowledge of the Arch-Wizard retiring. Oh. Suddenly, it clicked. The Arch-Wizard was 'retiring.' Caril narrowed his eyes. "—I thought this to be the perfect time for you to get real-world experience in your field. Can't have the new Arch-Wizard simply a scholar up to his nose in books, can we?"

"So I am doing field research?" asked Caril uninterestedly. It was better than being a guard or a justiciar, he supposed, but not by much. He'd rather be the scholarly Arch-Wizard buried up to his nose in books than the one who did 'field research' in Skyrim for who knows how long.

"If you wish—" If Caril wished? What did that mean? "—However, I am assigning you an important position that takes priority over 'field research'— as you put it. I am giving you the position of our only current undercover Altmer agent in Skyrim."

"What?" Caril blurted out. Was this some kind of sick joke? He was in Skyrim and he could not even live under decent conditions while he was there? He had to be out _there_?

"Undercover, yes. Our Kajiit agents are not allowed in the cities and I would prefer an Altmer doing the job over a Bosmer." Elenwen handed him a thin, leather-bound book. Upon opening it, he was flooded with pages upon pages of information about a young Altmer named Tiralyn, "That is your new identity. Memorize it, know it as naturally as you know your own. You will be working an ongoing operation, you will infiltrate the holds controlled by this so-called 'rebellion,' you must learn how the humans work, how to best use this province for the next Great War, you will simply be gathering information. As much of it as you possibly can. Of course I expect you to spend good time in the Imperial holds as well, our information gathering can only go so far, you know."

Only go so far? If the Thalmor were known for anything other than the White-Gold Concordat, they were known for information gathering. The Thalmor made it their business to know the goings on of Tamriel. Everything. How much did they expect out of him as a fully undercover operative—a surprisingly rare thing among the mer Thalmor agents—what could possibly be gained from undercover work? Was he required to cozy up to all the Jarls, to become a—what was it called again?—a Thane of the hold?

"You should have no trouble with this mission." Elenwen stood up, giving Caril the impression of dismissing him before dismissal was due, "You speak Nordic, do you not?" Caril nodded, he was fluent enough to hold a basic conversation in every language except Jel and Ta'agra—which were physically impossible for either men or mer to speak, "Erresen said you were versatile—"

"—In magic," Caril corrected, "That isn't the same thing. Just because some Destruction experts cannot cast an Illusion spell to save their life does not mean that, because I can, I know one thing about—"

"—It is time for you to learn, then," said Elenwen coldly. Caril felt no more need to speak, Elenwen could be terrifying in the moments she wasn't so despicably vain. She frowned at him, frowning was all she needed for Caril to needlessly fear for his life, "You will send your information to us every month through a list of reliable couriers found in that book. Consider this your final task for your promotion to Arch-Wizard. You are dismissed."

Caril nodded and shot Elenwen a dark glare as he stormed out of her office.

"Oh," Elenwen stopped Caril in his tracks instantly, "You are obviously forbidden from telling _anyone_ your mission unless you receive advance permission from me."

Caril grimaced but that grimace quickly turned into a slightly cocky smirk. He planned on fully testing his boundaries with Elenwen, "I ask your permission to tell someone my mission."

She gaped at him, "Who might _that_ be?"

"Your second-in-command."

She glowered at him. Glowered! Caril nearly laughed. Shaking her head and sitting back down in her chair, she gave in to his request, "Very well. Watch yourself, Caril. Skyrim is treacherous."

Back in the main building of the Embassy, Caril nearly kicked open the dark wooden doors to Ondolemar's quarters. Barely keeping himself civilized, he settled for throwing them open and storming in. Ondolemar showed little surprise at Caril's fury, knowing the grudge he held against Elenwen and having heard many earfuls about it in the past from Caril. He did jump a tiny bit when Caril threw the leather book at Ondolemar, whom it barely missed due to a timely duck.

"Calm down," Ondolemar warned. He screwed the cap over his inkwell and stashed his paperwork safely in a drawer of his desk. Caril stomped behind Ondolemar and picked up the book between his thumb and forefinger, holding it far away from his body as if it were something filthy and contaminated, "What has made you so angry?"

Caril held the book out to Ondolemar and said one word, "Undercover."

Ondolemar blinked, "You're kidding."

* * *

So, the first part of this story that I fear will become horrifyingly long.

I hope I will get out the next part soon!

If you've got a minute free, review and tell me what you think! Constructive criticism is always welcome! If not, I appreciate that you're reading this at all, hits make me smile.

P.S. I'm having a lot of fun making up random gobbledygook names for this story! Also, magic-babble is more enjoyable to write than it sounds. In the words of Jack Harkness himself, "Technobabble is good for the soul," except replace "techno" with "magic". Made up magical theory nonsense FTW!


	2. Chapter 1

So here's the next chapter. I had a lot of issues writing this one, I just got stuck. Ah, well the rest of the story is going along much smoother than this one particular chapter. I don't feel that Caril completely stuck to his character in this chapter, though I feel like I got him back on track pretty quickly. I just couldn't grunt out the scene with Ulfric as well as I liked, but I will leave that to judge for yourselves.

Anyways, proofreading it for the final time, I don't think it turned out all that bad, really.

* * *

**1 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril spent a mere three days in the Embassy before departing for the Reach with Ondolemar, who offered the protection of his guard as they returned to Markarth. Though Caril wished to prolong his stay at the Embassy by any means necessary, he preferred safe passage through one of the most dangerous holds above even that. Ondolemar's guards wisely suggested Caril travel to the Rift, his first destination, by way of Falkreath. They warned him of bitter cold and lack of shelter on the plains of Whiterun that claimed a few traveling Justiciars every year and said that, though the trip could take up to a week more, it was worth it to avoid the tundra for the protection of the southern pine forests.

"Markarth is a day or two out of your way at this point," said Ondolemar when they came upon a fork in the road where one sign pointed to the small Reach mining town, Karthwasten, Rorikstead, Falkreath, and Whiterun, and the solitary pointer in the other direction read Markarth, "But it might be worth your time to sleep in a real bed again, rent a room at the inn."

"How close is Karthwasten?" asked Caril.

"You could be there by sunset," said one guard, "But there's no inn, don't waste your time."

"I know. Markarth it is, I suppose. How far is it, then?"

"If we travel straight through," Ondolemar paused and thought for a moment, "We could be there before dawn but if we stop, it will be midday tomorrow, I believe."

They stopped for the night, needless to say. The roads were even more dangerous at night.

Caril was relieved for being able to dismount his horse for any small period of time even more than he was grateful for taking the safer route. Skyrim's horses were monsters; big, heavy, slow draft horses that would only be used for heavy work in elsewhere. He was used to riding tall, thin legged thoroughbreds with as sleek bodies as their mer masters. In that way, Skyrim's horses were analogous to the horses of the Isle, big and burly like their owners. However much he missed his own horses, he understood why they could not travel here. The roads were too uneven, too steep, and too treacherous for a fast but feeble hose like that.

Because they had eaten nearly all the food packed for the journey, the archer among the group of guards went off for an hour or so and came back with two rabbits and a pheasant of some kind. Caril had to look away as the guard moved to prepare their dinner. He wasn't adverse to killing things. His line of work required death, Soul Gems didn't fill themselves. The part that made his stomach churn was what had come from living a privileged life. He was not fond of seeing where his food came from. All he had to do was tell his housekeeper to buy and cook it for him. The most he preferred to see was after it was finished, garnished, and not resembling the beast it came from in the slightest.

The guards were laughing at him, even Ondolemar was snickering along with them. Caril looked at Ondolemar exasperatedly. Even though Ondolemar was joining in at Caril's expense, he knew that Ondolemar would never sully his hands with carving the meat, regardless of whether he had the stomach for it.

"Oh, stop it, Ondolemar."

"Never." Ondolemar shook his head and relaxed against the tree behind him, giving Caril a look indicating that he was never going to live this one night down.

**2 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Markarth was a sorry place. The first thing Caril saw once he was through the gates was a woman being murdered. The second thing he saw was the murderer being killed in the street by the town guards and dragged off to some dank pit to rot. The third thing he saw was the meat stand in the market where the murder took place. It was full of the animals themselves, gutted and strung up around the stand that was covered in blood itself.

"Bloodiest beef in the Reach," the shopkeeper had chimed.

Caril's stomach did a full somersault inside him. He fell to his knees in the middle of the traumatized marketplace and retched. He didn't understand why the murder he just witnessed didn't make him bat an eye but the meat… he didn't understand why. Then it wafted over him, quite literally. He was hit by another wave of the smell of the meat. Putrid he could handle, magical experiments more often than not led to something smelling horrible. The stand hovered somewhere between outright rotten and the poor smell the animal started out with. Something about it just sent him over the edge.

Someone grabbed Caril by the arm and hefted him to his feet. "Gods. A woman attacked right on the streets! Are you alright? Did you see what happened?"

"Get away from me," Caril shoved the man, his stomach twisting in disgust not because of the bloody stand but because the man so shamelessly approached him.

"I-I think you dropped this," stammered the man as he held out a slip of paper to Caril

Throwing his hands into the air, Caril backed away from the man, "It is not mine. Get away from me before I have you arrested."

The Breton's eyes flicked away from Caril and settled pointedly on the Thalmor clad in Elven armor directly behind Caril. A trace of fear flitted across his painted face and he tucked the note back into his pocket and scurried off with his head bowed, whispering a few words of apology as he left.

"Great way to start, Caril," said Ondolemar. His sarcasm burned.

"Gods damn you, Ondolemar," snapped Caril. He threw his hood up over his head, wrapped his cloak around his body and stormed off down a random street. He didn't care where he was going, he just had to get away from the humiliation. Ondolemar was a good friend and was always loyal but he never could resist taking a cheap shot if one became available.

He needed to find the inn, rent a room, and gather the supplies he needed for the next leg of his journey. There were no towns between Markarth and Falkreath and no towns meant few, if any, inns. As Caril became more and more lost in the bustle of the enormous city, his anger and humiliation dissipated. No one knew nor cared who he was anymore, he felt insignificant and that was fine, for now.

Street after street passed by and Caril's his amazement grew and grew. This was the first time he had ever seen a Dwemer Ruin, he had been missing so much. His studies had only covered the Dwemer in passing and his and his colleagues' meddling with the Dwemer mechanisms had been little more than a fleeting, mild curiosity. Seeing the magnificence of the Dwemer's craftsmanship truly left Caril in awe. The work it must have taken the Dwemer to carve this city out of the mountainside, even with the aid of magic, must have been monumental. As he drew closer to the mountainside and the palace of the Jarl, Understone Keep, he could feel the old magic resonating through the air. It hummed in a way that was similar to the excavation of the Crystal Tower he had worked at before the start of the Great War. Caril quite liked the feel of ancient and unknowable magical arts, it felt rather divine by nature, like he was in the presence of Magnus himself.

"No lollygagging, elf." A burly Nord guard brushed past Caril, giving him a less than gentle shove that made Caril stumble into the wall to his side.

"Watch it!" shouted Caril. He dusted off his cloak and watched the guard turn to face him. He narrowed his golden eyes and channeled magicka to one of his hands. With a hiss and a crackle, the contained lightning cloaked his hands and fingers.

"What're you going to do? You want to rot in Cidhna mine?" His smugness washed off him in rivers. Caril wanted to roast the man alive with all manner of Destruction spells but he refrained. Getting arrested on his first real day on the job would set a terrible precedent for the rest of his tenure. Reluctantly, he discharged his spell, "You elves are all the same, cowardly spellslingers."

"You humans are all the same," Caril straightened up to his full height, towering over even the large Nord guard, "Corrupt savages."

"Get out of my city." The guard drew his sword and pointed it towards Caril's stomach. The magic charged in Caril's hands again, in preparation to defend himself, "Damned elves like you have no place here."

"Gladly, I plan on leaving this city and this wretch of a province as soon as I can."

Caril spun on his heel and swept through the streets. People hid their faces from him as he walked by, nervous about his courage in confronting the guard. After turning down another few streets and climbing a long flight of stairs, he was in another district of the city that hadn't seen him yet. He was glad for a city this size to exist in Skyrim, he could escape to yet another corner if he found himself unable to remain in the previous one. While traveling to the Embassy, he'd only seen a few tiny settlements, only one of which had a name, Karthwasten. The tiny, run down mining town could not have had more than five hundred residents and it had no inn, either. A city with enough room for, what he estimated, a hundred thousand residents or more was a sight for sore eyes.

After a few minutes more of wandering, Caril stumbled upon an old, somewhat dreary inn and, deciding that he would not search for another, pushed open the vault-like Dwemer doors, which were surprisingly light to his touch.

The inside was as insignificant as the outside. Stone tables were covered with worn, cotton cloth and the stone benches surrounding them were chipped and ragged in places. An aging woman was reading by the light of the flaming hearth and two young children were playing a game of cards in the corner. The woman looked up, blinking at the sudden flood of light.

"Can I help you?" she asked.

"This is an inn, correct?" Ondolemar turned and stared at the sign. He was sure he was reading 'Nchuand-Zel Inn.' He couldn't take another bout of humiliation that day.

"Yes," the woman closed her book slowly, her brow furrowed in thought. Caril eyed her warily. Suddenly, she stood up and brushed herself off, "Oh, I apologize. We don't get much business here. You seem like the type who would rent from the Silver-Blood Inn."

"Silver-Blood Inn?" Caril furrowed his brow.

"You're lost aren't you, dear?" she laughed.

"I am _not_ l—"

"—I meant no harm," she smiled at him softly, "Markarth is not a visitor-friendly city. The Silver-Blood Inn is down by the market, if you would prefer."

Caril sighed and rubbed temples with the tips of his fingers. The market, oh, the market, "No. I will stay here for the night."

"It's ten Septims if you want a room plus your meals, seven if you just want the room. A much better deal than the Silver-Bloods can offer."

Caril dug around in the satchel slung around his shoulder and removed seven Septims from his coin purse. He paused and thought for a brief moment. He could easily get the best meals in town by going to Understone and leeching off Ondolemar but he did not care for facing him quite yet. He grabbed three more and placed all ten in the palm of the old woman.

"You are a smart young man," she pocketed the coins and beckoned for her to follow him. He quietly followed behind her down a dark hallway, where she pulled a key from her apron and unlocked another Dwemer door. She handed Caril the key with a smile, "Supper is in three hours, if you wish to eat with us. I will light the fire for you."

She walked in the room, placed a few logs and some tinder in the fireplace. Then, with a gleam in her eye, held a pinch of the tinder between her fingers. The tinder sparked up and blazed to life as she threw it into the fireplace, igniting the rest.

Caril was pleasantly surprised, a Nord knew remedial magic.

"Don't look so surprised, dear," she stood up and brushed out the door, "You haven't seen anything. I have a few tricks up my sleeve."

"What would those be?" Caril followed her back to the main room and gazed down at her challengingly. He was curious now.

"I used to be an adventurer," she sat down on her chair and opened her book, "That was a long time ago. I loved magic, for a time."

"What School?"

"Destruction, of course!" She laughed as if it was a silly question to ask, "What else would a young, boisterous adventurer wish for? I can see you aren't a novice, either, dear."

"No, I'm not."

"School?" she asked, glancing up from the pages of her book playfully.

Caril smirked, he knew what answer she was expecting. That wasn't the answer he had to give, "Enchanting."

"Oh how boring," she teased.

Caril bit back anger at that. He hated people even jokingly prodding at his work. His school was more important than the other Schools in many, many ways that even most others knowledgeable in the Arcane did not know. He frowned at her, "People underestimate its power. Do you know a place where I may buy supplies for the next leg of my journey? I will be leaving tomorrow morning."

"Of course."

She gave him a few pointers, where he could buy preserved food, potions, and even hunting supplies if he needed—which he quietly declined. It didn't take him long to find each store, once he found the woman's bearing, the Tower of Dibella. He bought mostly food, some dried meats and fruits, a few loaves of bread, and a bit of goat cheese. It would be enough to last him to Falkreath, where he would restock. He didn't bother with potions, feeling his Restoration magic would suffice. If he caught a disease on the way, he had a few small vials of medicine packed already and he would likely be able to make something for himself, even though Alchemy was by far his worst area of study.

He wished to explore the rest of Markarth, delve deeper into the Dwemer Ruin that was the city's foundation, but that was for another day. He was tired enough to know he needed more rest than usual to continue on the next leg of his journey. Wandering a city until late at night would not do him any good. With that decision made, Caril headed back for the inn before his curiosity could get the better of him.

The inn wasn't nearly as quiet as it had been when he was last there, much to Caril's chagrin. The two children who had been quietly playing cards were now running down the halls yelling and screaming as a large man chased behind them, roaring himself. Of course the innkeeper had not been their mother, she was too old. The children were the offspring of a Markarth guard.

He dodged one of the children rushing past him and left for his room. He settled on the hard bed and furs and removed his book, quill, and inkwell from his bag. He would relish in what peace he had from the insufferable children. He never wanted any of his own despite how cherished child-rearing was in the Dominion—so much so that it was on the verge of being mandated. Pages started to go by quickly as he read and reread each sentence, taking notes of his own over all the pages, and before he knew it, the old innkeeper came knocking on his door, calling him for supper.

The food was good, better than what the sloppily prepared meals he ate while on the road, but rather boring. Altmeri food was subtle, not to say it was ever bland but that it was simply more refined than Nordic meals. The innkeeper had prepared a fish—Slaughterfish, whatever that may be—and it tasted extremely fishy unlike the delicate seafood found on the coastal cities of the Isles. He didn't complain, he preferred to be filled with food than sleep on an empty stomach.

Later in the evening, he was incredibly pleased to say the Dwemer plumbing still worked after thousands of years. He drew himself a much appreciated bath. The hot water eased his tense muscles and he was overjoyed to be able to really clean the oil and grime out of his hair and off his face. He was beginning to enjoy Markarth a bit more. It was not entirely terrible with its running water and old magic.

**2 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Quickly after eating breakfast at the inn, Caril gave his curt goodbye to the innkeeper and headed to the stables. He strapped his things to the horse's saddle and was off within the hour.

The mountainous road from Markarth was very lonely. Caril did not see a single person along the road for hours, just endless rolling hills of Juniper. Every so often, he would hear the howls of wolves or see a goat bound off through the trees but little else. The Reach was much more arid than all the other parts of Skyrim he had seen so far. The grass was sparse and colored a pale green. Tough, thick-leaved plants grew over the rocky hillsides. The only lush green of the landscape was on the shores of the river, which was infested with hardy but invasive-looking reeds. The landscape made sense, he was near the border with Hammerfell.

Caril was glad for the solitude, it gave him time to think. He needed it. He had not had a moment alone in over a month. First it was the caravan traveling to Skyrim, then he was at the Embassy, and then it was the trip to Markarth. For a very solitary mer like Caril, it had been torture. Tempers boiled over, arguments had, and even a punch or two thrown. The steady pounding of the hooves on the cobbled road was soothing to him. It's monotony calmed him to the point he would fall asleep if it were not for the jerking of the horse's body with each step.

If Caril looked hard enough, he could spot more Dwemer ruins dotting the landscape. The once, golden roofs were dirty and dulled, the limestone walls were being worn away by the weather. Markarth had been excellently preserved when compared to these crumbling ruins. Caril supposed the Nords and Bretons had inhabited the city for at least a thousand years or more and prevented the elements from destroying it as much as the empty ones dotting the hillside. He also vaguely wondered how far down the ruins went. He knew the fortress-like buildings he saw around the landscape were only the tips, just the entrance hall.

**5 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

The trip to Falkreath was entirely uneventful. He had passed a few travelers making their way to Solitude to join the Legion, a caravan of Kajiit thieves, and a group of drunkards passed out on the side of the road near the run-down inn Old Hrodan. Caril was beginning to wonder why Skyrim was such a dangerous place. The most frightening thing he had seen was an oversized crab hiding in the banks of the river when he let his horse pause for water. Granted, it was at least a dozen times larger than the next largest crab Caril had ever seen but that didn't change the fact that it was still a crab. It still walked on silly legs with silly claws and beady eyes, it was still a horrible creature. Caril incinerated it without batting an eye once it got a too close.

The juniper scrubland of the Reach transitioned into dense pine forests. The mountain goats turned into deer and elk. Instead of the dry, cool mountains around Markarth, he was left in humid, rainy lowlands. He had yet to encounter snow on the caliber of the mountains of Haafingar. He must be too far south to get severe snowstorms, especially in the spring.

He arrived in the city of Falkreath mid-morning. The town was poor, very poor yet had at least as many people as Markarth, if not more. Something was off, though. All the residents kept their noses down and hid out of sight and there was a noticeable Imperial presence in the city. More than when he had first entered Skyrim and passed through Falkreath. Less than three weeks prior, the city was kept by unfit guards and the sparse Legionnaire. Now, it was crawling with Legionnaires of every shape and size, from the lightly-armored, quick-footed scouts to the brutes wearing full plate armor and wielding a warhammer.

Something was happening and Caril had no wish to find himself involved. He dismounted his horse, tied it up, gathered his valuable belongings, and left to buy more supplies. If the weather had been more permitting, he would have left his cloak with his horse. He was well-aware it was drawing attention in the crowds. It was very clearly traditional Aldmeri design and likely looked similar to the Thalmor uniform. Black material with intricate golden stitching was reminiscent of a wealth that existed only within the Dominion these days. Caril did not worry about the suspicious civilians, they could have their worries for all he cared, he disliked the looks the Legionnaires were giving him. They _knew_ he was Thalmor even though they would never have any proof.

For several hours, Caril debated whether he would rent a room for the night and continue in the morning. The moment he saw General Tullius himself riding his horse through town, Caril decided to make himself scarce. Something important was happening and Caril feared getting caught up in Skyrim's civil war. He packed his restocked supplies and quickly rode out of town. He ran his heavy horse as fast as he dared, putting as much distance between him and the amassing Imperial army as he could. Something was wrong, so very wrong. Deep in the pit of his stomach, Caril could sense it.

Like all animals, his horse tired after a few hours of holding a steady pace through the forests. He could not run the beast anymore if he wished to travel at all the next day. The sun was lowering on the horizon and Caril had long since seen the dregs of the Legion. Whatever it was, Caril had passed through safely.

Reluctantly, he watered his horse at a small stream. He had little choice but to make a camp for the night. It was necessary, he reminded himself as he unpacked his things and tried to settle down for the night. He knew not to light a fire if he did not want to unnecessarily attract the attention of the nearby Legion. Maybe a solid night's sleep would ease his anxiety. After eating a meager meal of bread, cheese, and an apple, he tried to lull himself to sleep.

He was plenty warm, the rain and thunder long ago stopped, and he had not heard a human footstep in hours, yet he couldn't force himself asleep. His chest was twisted into a nervous knot, he tossed and turned on the ground, and watched the starless sky threaten him with rain. It was very late at night when Caril came to the decision that he was not going to fall asleep that night.

He charged his hand with magicka and cast a faint Candlelight into the air just above his head. The pale white light was just enough to read by. He had to work at remembering his fake identity. He had neglected that duty so far on his trip, preferring to study his magic books over it any day. Tiralyn was young, very young. He was not even 50 years old. Caril supposed it was for the best. He had maintained his youth head and shoulders above the rest of his peers. At this point in his life, he appeared to be half to a third of his actual age.

Tiralyn was… an Altmer refugee? A dissident against the Dominion? His history was rather vague. Maybe that could be for the best, he could twist it for each individual situation he found himself in. He could plead the refugee with the more sympathetic and the dissident for the skeptical. Either way, it would explain his accent. Smooth, fast-spoken Aldmeri Tamrielic was not a language that blended well with the guttural, less-advanced Nordic. His native language was ancient, perfected long ago in the First Era while modern Nordic changed as fast as the politics in Skyrim.

There was a quiet rustle off to one side of Caril. He glanced up and scanned his surroundings for a few minutes. He saw nothing of worry, it must have been a rabbit.

Ondolemar, of course, was the reliable contact in the Reach. He did not often travel between the Embassy and Markarth but his guards did.

A Kajiit by the name of J'datharr… a Kajiit? Caril shrugged to himself. It was on Elenwen's head if his information went missing by the hands of an unreliable contact. The Kajiit was for Eastmarch.

Ancano was _very_ tentatively named the contact for Winterhold. A side note said he was to be monitored for competency long before he was to be approached. Caril was to use another hold for relaying information while he watched Ancano secretly and from a distance.

The contacts for the Rift and Falkreath were both Bosmer. Whiterun and the Pale both had Altmer agents. Caril was unfamiliar with all of their names. They would be problematic to track down.

Haafingar and Hjaalmarch were odd cases. Neither had a specified contacts. Haafingar held the Embassy, though, and Hjaalmarch was so small, had so few residents, and was so near Haafingar, Caril was told simply go to someone in Haafingar.

Something rustled again. Caril fingered the hilt of his sword, preparing to draw it in the blink of an eye. He was not entirely sure why, either. A sword would just take away a hand he could use for magic. Another minute of silence passed, Caril took a deep breath and reminded himself he was in the woods. Animals were also in the woods. There was no threat.

He returned to reading over and studying his false identity again. If he had been a good actor, he wouldn't worry about knowing all the details fluently. Since he was not only a bad actor but a terrible one, he had to be able to know this information like his life depended on it. His life did likely depend on it.

There it was again. Caril looked up. The rustling sounded closer and heavier now. Despite what many Altmer claimed, their race really didn't have senses much better than any human race. None of the mer races did. Only the beast races could claim that honor.

Caril gazed out into the darkness, hoping to see the shining eyes of some woodland creature. All he saw were formless shadows. Maybe his magical light was attracting the attention of animals. In the end, it didn't really matter, Caril was too spooked to extinguish it. He much preferred to see anything that was in his small lit area than to see nothing at all.

Again, the forest fell silent. Oddly silent. Caril was growing more and more paranoid by the second. Maybe someone had cast Muffle and the rustles were when the spell ran out and had to be cast again.

Had someone already contacted an assassin?

Caril stood on shaking legs and stared out into the dark beyond, "Who's there? Show yourself!"

It was a silly, foolish thing to ask. If an assassin was really out there, why would they reply to his call?

Caril jumped and lightning flared out in all directions. He saw something move. Some flitting shadow blurred across his periphery vision. His concentration for his magic was failing, the electricity was surging all over his body instead of being concentrated in the palms of his hands. He was panicking now. Someone was out to kill him.

His breath caught in his throat as he backed towards his horse. An arrow could come out of nowhere and strike him in the head, he could be stabbed in the back at any second. Caril took a deep breath and a risk, he turned his back on the forest, untied his horse, and leapt on its back. Kicking the beast roughly in the sides, he pushed it to a gallop and back onto the main road.

He couldn't turn back.

Caril let out a low whine when he looked back and swore he saw someone or something pursuing him from behind. His Candlelight was lost somewhere far down the road, unable to keep up with his current speed, and had probably gone out by now.

Alone. Caril was alone in the darkness. His horse was wheezing already, it was too tired to continue this pace. Still, Caril pushed it onwards. He held a healing spell to its skin but even that could only do so much.

Then, to Caril's terror, the smell of smoke washed over him. He was not sure whether the forest had lit on fire or if it was a campsite. He also was unsure which one he feared more.

Caril was not a particularly religious man, he never had been, finding more comfort in magic than in the Gods. In his panic, he found himself squeezing his eyes shut and whispering prayers, pleas, to any god who came to mind, from Mara to Magnus, Phynaster, and even Y'ffre, if he would listen.

Something shrieked and Caril found out, as he toppled face-first towards the ground, it was his horse. Only just managing to protect his head with his arms, he fell hard on the road. The impact itself nearly knocked him unconscious, his vision swam, his already disorderly thoughts became mangled, and he felt his physical strength fail him. He was shaking all over so violently he barely managed to scramble out of the way when his panicked and injured horse rose to its feet galloped away, its heavy hooves landing where his body once was.

"By Talos, Fjodar, that wasn't the courier." Someone grabbed Caril's limp shoulder and shook him, "Hey, elf… elf!"

Caril's head was spinning too much for him to force an answer to his lips. He was fading fast, he could not lose consciousness. He could not.

"Kill him, Ralof. Probably some Thalmor."

Do not lose consciousness. Stay awake.

"You have no proof, Fjodar. He isn't wearing their colors. Besides, where are his guards?"

Stay awake.

"Take him to Jarl Ulfric, then. He knows something, all elves do."

Something hard hit Caril on the crown of his head, finishing the battle for him.

**6 Rain's Hand? 7 Rain's Hand? 4E 201**

A sharp pain flashed across one side of Caril's face, "Wake up."

Caril blinked himself awake and he looked around. All he was fully aware of was the dull ache throughout his body, he was only slowly becoming aware of his surroundings.

"You better stay awake this time, elf."

Someone was standing above him, several people, actually. Mind slowly clearing, Caril's vision came into focus. Two men, two Nords were standing around him, he didn't recognize either of them. Not that he would.

One grabbed his neck and lifted him off his back. Caril immediately jerked to wrench the man's hands away from him but found his hands were bound tightly behind his back.

"Are you awake, elf?" he said.

Caril didn't respond, he twisted against his bindings and against the choking grip on his neck. It was all in vain, he was a thinly-built Altmer even among his peers. He had no physical strength with which to struggle and he would have to be extremely careful when attempting to cast a spell.

"I think he is," said the other man.

"Giving in isn't how you interrogate someone," said the man holding Caril by his neck. Caril writhed in the man's grasp again, he was not going to let himself be tortured and left to die by humans, "Answer me. Are you awake?"

Caril stared into the cold eyes of his captor and said through gritted teeth, "No."

That was a mistake. He was thrown onto the ground and backhanded across his face so hard his eyes watered in pain.

"Don't underestimate me," the man stood up, and beckoned the his companion to stand as well, "Galmar, go, speak to my men about finding that courier," the man wearing the idiotic pelt on his head nodded and left, "You are going to tell me everything you know."

"What do you expect out of me?" asked Caril.

"I expect you to tell me everything you know."

Caril looked away. How much did they know about him? Caril's mind raced, he feared the worst, "Why do you think I know anything?"

"Because I know your accent." The man settled to his knees on the ground and grabbed Caril's neck again, "You are from Summerset Isle."

Caril did not respond to that. He would not give him the pleasure of making any of this easy. Maybe they didn't know he was a Thalmor already, otherwise the interrogation would have probably gone downhill much faster.

Caril's breath hitched when he felt the cold bite of a knife against his throat, "You have no room to fight me, elf. Tell me everything I want to know and you won't be hurt. I might even consider letting you go."

Caril closed his eyes and took a deep, shaking breath. Maybe he could spin lies coherent enough to merit himself freedom. He doubted that possibility. The Nord holding him prisoner, at first glance, did not seem to be of the same breed as the widespread, isolationist, Talos-worshipping zealots Ondolemar spoke about with such distaste. He was more well-spoken than those barbarians, probably literate, someone Caril had to fear in the Nords.

The blade was lowered from his throat slowly, "This doesn't have to be so hard. I want all the information you have on the Thalmor."

What kind of a question was that? All the information he had on the Thalmor? How could such a broad question possibly have a suitable answer?

"Answer me, elf."

Another hard slap across the face and the threat of the knife was enough for Caril to speak again, "What do you want? I have no idea what you are looking for."

He chose not to further anger the Nord before he was severely injured. By some miracle, Caril had calmed his mind enough and focused on the goal of living through the situation above all else.

"First, I want to know the names of your leaders in Skyrim."

Caril furrowed his brow in further confusion, "Elenwen," he answered. Did this man not know the names of the higher-ups or were the Thalmor just that quiet about things?

The knife flashed in the dim light of their surroundings and easily cut through the skin of his cheek. He screamed and jerked away, his blood ran down his face, into his mouth and down his neck.

"I know about Elenwen. Tell me other names, elf. Who would take her place? Who commands your soldiers?"

"I don't know," Caril lied.

He bit down hard on his lip to stifle the pain on the rest of his cheek and gathered what concentration he could manage into a simple healing spell. The golden light swirled around his body and knitted the wound together, leaving at a state where it would have been several days old and partially healed over. The aches in the rest of his body subsided some with the spell as well.

The man stood again, his hands trembled with rage. Maybe healing himself was a mistake.

"You have guts, elf." Somehow, the man's voice didn't match the rage his body emanated. It was completely flat.

Caril didn't dare sit up when the man left his line of sight. Dread bubbled up from the pit of Caril's stomach. Why did all this have to happen to him? He didn't care if he never made Arch-Wizard, he didn't care if that idiotic apprentice who lit his boots on fire made that position. He wanted to go home. Was that too much to be ask?

In mere moments, the man returned and held a tiny bottle full of a dark blue liquid in front of Caril's nose, "Do you know what this is?"

Caril stared at the bottle anxiously. He knew what it was, of course he knew what it was. It was magicka poison, a powerful one, too.

"Answer my questions, you stupid, milk-drinking Thalmor wretch!"

The man's temper snapped and the steel dagger just became a flash of light as it plunged deep into Caril's thigh. Caril screamed in agony and launched a reflexive kick with the other leg towards his attacker. By sheer luck, his foot hit squarely on the man's jaw. It didn't harm him, Caril wasn't strong enough to do that, but it stunned him made him stumble back.

The knife was still imbedded in Caril's leg and he wasn't flexible enough to remove it without making the wound worse than it already was.

**? Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

It had only been a few days, a week and a half at most. Caril spent his time curled in a corner of what he eventually discovered to be a tent, trying to drag enough magicka together to heal himself. He had long since been force-fed the extremely powerful magicka poison. His captors, a small Stormcloak regiment, wasted no time in snuffing out his only form of self defense as soon as he lit the cloak of Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak himself on fire.

His entire body burned as if it was on fire the way Ulfric had been the once. His injuries had only been rudimentarily treated, mainly to keep him from falling ill while they tried to extort information from him.

The shame Caril felt was nearly as overwhelming as the pain. They broke him in less than a day. He gave all the information they asked for when his miserable pain threshold was breached. He condemned his friends and allies to their deaths because he had no tolerance for a knife.

Yet they expected he knew more than he let on. They kept him and called him out for lying and hiding information he did not know in the first place. Caril truly did not know all that much about the Thalmor operation in Skyrim. He had not been in Skyrim long enough to know how everything was run. Elenwen had been a smart woman to tell him only the bare minimum of the Skyrim operation.

He shivered when a gust of cold air slipped into the tent. He was grateful he was in Southern Skyrim. He would have surely died to hypothermia or at the very least been frostbitten severely if he was much farther north. If he ever made it out alive, he needed to buy himself warmer clothes. His cloak and thin mage robes were not nearly enough.

His magicka flared up briefly to give him a spare moment of relief from his aching body and sputtered out just as quickly. That was the most he ever got. The poison was not only enough to drain all of his vast control over magicka but to keep it drained for days.

**? Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril jerked out of a faint sleep to the sound of shouting and swords clashing. He had only just nodded off. He was honestly tired of hearing the drunken brawls of these Nords.

Though… the more Caril listened, it sounded less and less like two angry humans brawling and more and more like a real battle had broken out.

"Talos smite you!"

Yes, a real fight had most definitely broken out.

Caril furrowed his brow with concentration, swallowed down the screams of protest from his broken body, and forced himself to stand. He was weak from a lack of rest and food, his legs trembled under his own weight.

He peered through the thin opening between the flaps of the tent. His eyes widened when he saw what was really happening around him. All those Legionnaires in Falkreath? They were planning to raid a Stormcloak encampment.

It would be foolish to try to run away in the chaos with his hands bound, Caril needed to make a plan. First he needed a knife or an unwitting Stormcloak or Legionnaire.

A particularly close clang of metal caused Caril to jump backwards. To his surprise, a too-young Stormcloak toppled backwards through the entrance of the tent, a Legionnaire toppled in quickly after him. The sword improperly clutched in the Stormcloak's hands pierced the chest of the Legionnaire as he toppled in after the young boy.

Horror was painted on both their faces as the life drained from the Legionnaire.

Caril was frozen in place. This was his chance, he could see daggers strapped to the waists of both the Stormcloak and the dead Imperial.

The boy was sobbing, Caril noticed. He was terrified. Too young for war, barely an adult.

Gears began to turn in Caril's mind as he approached the young boy and kicked the dead body off his chest. Here was his unwitting Stormcloak.

"You," said the boy, wide-eyed, "Don't kill me, please. I promise I won't pray to Talos anymore! I won't!"

Caril narrowed his eyes, "Must you bring up religious debates in a time like this? Cut me loose, boy."

The young Nord scrambled to his feet, nodding dumbly, and sliced through the ropes binding Caril's hands behind his back. The skin was rubbed raw and exposing it to fresh air stung, though why Caril noticed that over the many lacerations and stab-wounds all over the rest of him was beyond him.

Caril lifted the sword out of the grasp of the Imperial soldier. He was even less happy with his clumsy steel sword than he had been with the elven one Ulfric Stormcloak now wore like a trophy.

He glanced back at the Nord and scoffed. The boy was terrified again, apparently just realizing that he had released their prisoner.

"Please," he whispered.

"Show me where you keep your alchemy supplies and potions and I'll consider sparing you," said Caril. He hoped the Nord was either too panicked or too dumb to catch his bluff. Caril knew he wasn't even strong enough to challenge a panicked, skinny Nord, especially in his current state.

The boy nodded numbly and beckoned him out, "It's—it's this way."

Together they ducked out into the chaos. Imperials and Stormcloaks ran about everywhere, the dense smoke burned Caril's nose as tent after tent was lit ablaze. He was too lanky to effectively slip through unnoticed, though no one took the time to attack him and the young Stormcloak boy. Stormcloaks were too busy trying to flee and Imperials were too busy trying to catch the traitors.

"It was here…"

Caril looked at a trampled tent and slowly shook his head, his grip tightening on the sword. He could see the gray canvas was stained with the hundreds of broken potion containers lying underneath.

"Consider leaving now, stupid human," said Caril. He was at his breaking point. His weakness and lack of mental clarity was pushing him to the edge. He _needed_those potions not only to get out of the battle safely but to survive for more than a day in the wilderness of Skyrim.

Caril dropped the sword and threw overturned as much of the tent as he could handle.

"We have your leader! Ulfric Stormcloak has surrendered to the Imperial Legion! Surrender to us now, your rebellion is over!"

Caril glanced up. General Tullius was riding through the wreckage on an enormous horse. Every Stormcloak froze at the statement. He heard the boy quietly whisper a desperate "no."

Caril grit his teeth and dug through the broken bottles. He needed to get out as fast as possible. There! He found a potion he was searching for. A general cure for poisons. It was not strong enough to undo all the damage the magicka poison had done, he needed real medicine for that, but it was enough. It would have to do.

He drank it down as quickly as he could. The familiar, relaxing presence of magicka flowing properly through his body flooded all his senses. It was not a fifth of the power he once controlled with ease, yet he could manage a basic healing spell with it and sustain it for a few minutes.

His wounds knit together, his muscles regained strength, and his cloudy thoughts cleared. He felt he might just make it through.

"What in the world?"

Caril turned, his breath catching in his throat. A large, Nord Legionnaire stood in front of him.

"Legate!" the Nord turned around and waved his arms in the air, "Come over here! There's some High Elf."

Not again. Caril swallowed. He was too weak to fight off hundreds of Legionnaires. Even on one of his best days that would be too much. He could not do a thing. He _loathed_ all of humanity at that moment, never had he been more sympathetic to the Thalmor's ideals.

* * *

Next chapter is when the plot actually starts. Will go from Helgen to Whiterun at the very least.

And, yes, there is a point to the "?" dates. Keep an eye on them as the story progresses.

Thanks for the support I got from the first chapter. I got a whole lot more than what I expected! 6 reviews, 3 favorites, and 7 alerts. All that made me smile. Thanks guys!

Hope all of you readers come back when I get the next chapter up! :)


	3. Chapter 2

I have the next chapter finalized for all you readers out there. I slashed the Whiterun bit in the end, the chapter was just getting too long. I really don't want to start a precedent of 10,000 word chapters. Those are just too long and, as an avid fanfic reader, dread the moment when I get a chapter that takes me forever to read.

So... the dreaded Helgen chapter. It had to be done. It is in every fic there is for Skyrim and few people make it interesting to read. I hope I did. It sticks to the scripted events for the first little bit but diverges greatly towards the end.

* * *

**? Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril did not want to open his eyes. He did not want to know what horrid place he had been dragged off to. He pictured himself back home in Summerset, in Alinor. He missed the warm, balmy climate, the good food, his home. He even missed the gossipy society.

Caril was roughly reminded he was not at his home in Alinor when the carriage jerked and shuddered, part of the wooden backrest bumped into one of his not quite healed wounds on his arm. Hissing in pain, Caril knew he was fully awake now.

"Hey, elf. You're finally awake."

He didn't want to give the Stormcloak the pleasure of his acknowledgement. He opened his eyes and turned away, watching the landscape pass slowly. They were nearing a fortified village and Caril knew that it couldn't be a good sign.

The other passengers on the carriage broke into a small, petty argument over something. It only caught his attention when three words were said, "Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak."

To Caril's horror, upon turning around, he found himself facing a bound and gagged Jarl Ulfric Stormcloak. He wanted to tear the man's head off for what he did. His lips curled into a vicious snarl when the Nord's eyes caught his own. The man simply tightened his brow and looked away in a huff.

"General Tulius, the headsman is waiting," said an Imperial.

"Good, let's get this over with."

Caril twisted around and gazed over the top of the Stormcloak opposite him. His eyes widened and a wonderful feeling of hope flooded him. Elenwen. She was speaking with the Imperial General. She was easily within earshot if he shouted.

He opened his mouth to shout for her and get himself free of his horrible predicament, but his voice failed him at the wrong moment. All that came out was a strange, mangled squeak. Nothing was wrong with his voice, words simply didn't form in his mouth.

"Damn elves," muttered the blond Stormcloak.

"Watch your tongue," snapped Caril. He frowned. He could easily scold a Nord but he could not scream at his superior for her pardon? What kind of logic was that? Caril shook his head, his mind could not be as clear as he thought it was. Determined this time to save himself, he looked up and Elenwen was long gone, well out of earshot.

The carriage came to a halt. The other three passengers stood with a quiet remark about their imminent deaths from the blond one. The man in ragged robes panicked and started screaming and shouting about how he was not a rebel, how he should not be killed, that it was all just a big mistake. Caril rose, too, figuring he could at least make his death less painful.

"Step forward while we call your name. One at a time."

"Empire loves their damn lists."

Caril's lips tweaked into the tiniest smile. If the Stormcloak thought the Empire was obsessive, he really had no interactions with the Thalmor and their methodical categorizing of _everything_.

"Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

Caril was mildly pleased as he watched his former interrogator walk off in binds to his death.

"Ralof of Riverwood."

The talkative blond Stormcloak walked off.

"Lokir of Rorikstead."

Caril kept his eyes downcast but even then he knew it did not take long for the cowardly Nord to meet his death.

"Wait. You there, step forward."

Caril looked up wearily and took a single step forward.

"Who are you?" the Legionnaire asked. He looked genuinely confused and, if Caril named the other emotion right, worried.

"What does it matter?" asked Caril. He glanced at the strict, angry-looking captain at the man's side, "You are going to kill me anyway."

The man hesitated and looked Caril up and down, "You're not from the Thalmor, are you? No, that can't be right."

At this point, Caril felt that correcting the Legionnaire would only set his fate in stone. He doubted even the Legion could resist ridding the Empire of another Thalmor agent.

"Forget the list," the impatient captain said, "He goes to the block."

Caril was not shocked but found relief in that the Legionnaire with the book was. He opened his mouth as if to protest that decision but instead said, "By your orders, Captain." He glanced back at Caril and made a note in his book, "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to the Summerset Isle. Follow the captain, prisoner."

Caril turned his gaze back to the ground as he walked after the captain, stopping slightly away from the gathered men. He could not be bothered to pay attention. His life was over and what had it amounted to? He was being sent to the headsman for committing no crimes.

He hoped Elenwen paid dearly for this. She sent him on a suicide mission. In a perfect world, she would be punished by both the Thalmor and the Institute but that probably wouldn't happen. Caril felt he wasn't important enough to the Thalmor to merit anger from them. He was hardly more than the footslogger soldiers. The Institute, however, would never again trust the Thalmor.

Caril was shaken out of his thoughts when he heard a tremendous roar that shook the very earth beneath his feet. He looked up at the sky.

"There it is again…"

Nothing was there, just the clouds and the tips of ancient pines.

"I said, next prisoner," said the harsh, angry captain.

Caril realized everyone was watching him expectantly. Somewhere in the stern eyes of Ulfric Stormcloak, Caril saw a glint of pleasure. Caril stared at him as he walked forward. If by some strange—well, he would not call it a miracle—chance that they both made it out of this situation alive, Ulfric Stormcloak had made a dangerous enemy out of Caril.

The captain shoved Caril down to his knees and held him to the block with her foot. Caril squeezed his eyes tightly shut, he could not watch. This was the end. He hoped he would haunt Elenwen for the rest of her life. He tried to brace himself for the moment his world would go black and silent but couldn't calm his frantic heartbeat. He did not want to die.

He felt the next roar more than he heard it. It pulsed so loudly, he could feel it's pressure in his chest. His eyes snapped open when the ground shook violently. He heard Tullius shouting distantly as an enormous black mass came down from above, landing on the tower and spreading it's great, black wings wide. For a brief moment, it's intelligent red eyes met Caril's and Caril swore it stared into his very soul.

"Dragon!"

The beast turned it's gaze towards the sky and let out another roar that sounded suspiciously like speech. The deafening roar reverberated in his chest again and a visible pulse of air was sent upwards into the sky.

The word turned red as the sky was set ablaze. Caril's vision swirled as he struggled to stand. Everyone was in a state of panic. Chaos erupted everywhere as the dragon circled the village, laying waste to the buildings and people.

"Come on, elf. Get up!" shouted the blond Stormcloak.

Caril's vision cleared enough to get a picture of his surroundings. Everything was destroyed. The gates had collapsed in on themselves and the walls, roofs, and furniture of the houses were strewn everywhere. Legionnaires, Stormcloaks and civilians lay dead all around his feet.

Coherent thought came to a shuddering halt in Caril's mind. Instinct took over. He fled after the Stormcloak, into one of the few structures that had not yet been destroyed.

"Was that really a dragon?" the Stormcloak asked breathlessly, "Could the legends be true?"

Caril slumped against the far wall. His body screamed protests. It did not want to be moving.

"Legends don't burn down villages."

How true. Caril silently agreed with Ulfric Stormcloak on that one statement. Legends were not legends if they were true.

"We need to move, now!" shouted Ulfric, "Up the stairs!"

Caril didn't move. He did not have the strength.

"Up," the blond Stormcloak hefted him up by his shouders, "On your feet."

Caril was astonished they—or at least the blond man—were making an active effort to save his life. Why?

Caril breathed deeply and began the slow, painful ascent up the stairs of the tower. His hands had yet to be unbound, he was unstable as he walked up the stairs. Mustering what concentration he could spare, he began to heal himself again. It made the climb up the stairs much less painful, though he did not dare to use any spell that would deplete his magicka considerably.

Not ten steps ahead of him, the wall burst open, crushing an unwary Stormcloak in the rubble, and the horned head of the dragon could be seen through the smoke. Again, it's roar sounded unnaturally like speech and a jet of fire a hundred times more powerful than any basic Flames spell erupted from its mouth.

The heat of the fire burned Caril's exposed skin and heated the bricks it touched to red-hot. The flames died down and the dragon's eyes met Caril's once more.

It bared it's fangs in what Caril had the strangest feeling was a smile, "Dovahkiin."

Caril blinked and the beast was gone when his eyes opened again. Caril spun around, the stairs leading further up the tower had collapsed. To his chagrin, it seemed the only other survivors of that particular attack were the blond Stormcloak, whose name escaped Caril's mind, and none other than Ulfric Stormcloak himself.

The blond Nord rushed past Caril and looked out the opening left by the dragon while Ulfric simply walked up to Caril and examined him up and down.

"That attack did considerably less damage than it should have," he murmured.

Caril glanced down. His robes were burned beyond repair, as was much of his cloak, yet his skin was barely tinted pink. The aches in his body had hardly increased from the fire, as well. Strange. Had he been a Dunmer, his less than severe burns might have been explainable but he was an Altmer. Of all races, Altmer were the weakest to magic, he should have been burned to a crisp like the unfortunate Nords caught up in the inferno. Even his long hair had been spared from the inferno.

The blond Stormcloak came back into Caril's line of sight and pointed up the stairs, towards the gaping hole in the wall.

"There's an inn just outside there. Jump down and we'll follow when we can."

Those were instructions for him. Caril furrowed his brow, it was another attempt to save his life by that Stormcloak. Numbly, Caril nodded and walked up the remaining stairs and peered down through the smoke, he could see the inn and his heart raced upon thinking of jumping down there. He was going to break his legs.

"Go, idiot!" the Nord shouted.

The roar of the dragon sounded off again, it was fast approaching the tower from behind, preparing another attack on the last survivors inside. The tower shook as the dragon landed above him. The talons at the tips of the wing were as long and thick as Caril's forearm. He would be gutted instantly with one swipe from a wing of the beast.

Caril decided to take his chances in the burning inn. He screamed as he fell through the air, through the flaming, partially collapsed roof and onto the floor.

Again, his body screamed in pain. He had definitely broken something with that landing. His collarbone and a few more ribs, probably. Adrenaline was fast being pumped through his veins, the pain was fading as his whole body became numb. In his relief from the pain, he pushed himself up again and found he couldn't properly move one leg. Broken or severely sprained, he figured.

He had to get out of the building. His lungs were crying out for air that wasn't drenched with black smoke. The inn was collapsing down on top of him.

He stumbled over the body of a young, civilian woman to find she was not yet completely dead. Her sooty, burned face was stained with agonized tears. She begged Caril to save her with her eyes. He could do nothing. Wide-eyed, Caril shook his head and turned his back on her. No one was coming out of this alive, civilian or soldier.

Scrambling through the burning wreckage was difficult, nigh impossible with his still bound hands and a partially lame leg. Eventually, Caril squeezed his way out through a hole the collapsed wall and roof had not yet completely filled in.

Caril collapsed on his back and gasped for breath. The rush of oxygen through his body cleared his thoughts and allowed him to regain his grasp on reality. Adrenaline was still clouding his perception but suffocation was no longer making it worse.

Get up. Get up.

"Prisoner, with me!" It was the sympathetic Legionnaire.

Caril scrambled to his feet. He stumbled. His newfound clarity made him also realize how fully his leg was not able to hold his weight. Before he fell, he felt someone grab him around the waist.

"Come on," said the Legionnaire.

The soldier supported part of Caril's weight as he helped him limp down the road. The dragon still circled overhead appearing entirely unharmed by the hundred or so surviving Legion archers and wizards throwing all they had at the monster.

"What does it take to kill this thing!" came a shout over the chaos.

The dragon swooped down low over the soldiers, picking up half a dozen in its claws and throwing them over the fortified town walls. Then it circled back around, flying lower than the roofs had once been, those white-hot flames spouting out of its mouth.

The Legionnaire dug his shoulder into Caril's stomach and tackled him to the ground as the jet of flames passed over where they once stood.

Caril groaned when they finally stopped rolling. At this point, would it not be better to be killed now by the dragon than suffer recovering from all the wounds he was accumulating?

Strangely, a glint of gold caught Caril's eye through the smoke. He squinted at it and then, his eyes widened with realization. It was an elven sword, his sword! Caril scrambled over to it. It had partially fallen out of its scabbard and glinted in the faint light. The Imperial who took it from Ulfric was laying dead on the ground, partially crushed by rubble.

He fumbled over the buckle holding it to the body and wrenched it away. He was not sure why he was so concerned over the sword but he knew he needed it. Caril removed it from the scabbard, clamped the blade between his knees, and sawed off his bindings. Hopefully, his hands would stay free this time.

Something about finding the sword filled Caril with a new sense of determination. He stood, holding the sword and scabbard, and ran—or rather, hopped—through the massacre. He had no time to nurse his injuries until he was somewhere safe. Caril had no idea where that would be.

"Prisoner! With me, into the Keep!"

Caril turned. The friendly Legionnaire was still alive! He was clutching a wound at his side, blood seeping through his gingers, but was alive and breathing nonetheless. To Caril, the man was a sight for sore eyes.

"Out of my way, Hadvar!"

The blond Stormcloak was alive and kicking as well, it seemed.

Caril plunged the tip of the sword into the ground and leaned on it to take away the weight on his injured leg. Somehow, the Imperial and the Stormcloak managed to find time to bicker about political alignment. Only the roar of the dragon stopped their argument.

"Come on, prisoner!"

"Oy, elf!"

Caril stared at the Stormcloak in disbelief. Was the man really beckoning him? Really? He wrenched his sword from the ground and backed away from the blond man, towards the person who hopefully would not backstab him.

"Quickly, come on!" The Legionnaire, Hadvar, threw Caril's arm over his shoulders and allowed Caril to rest most of his weight on strong shoulders.

Death came on swift wings. The dragon was back. It landed on the ground directly in front of Hadvar and Caril, snapping a Stormcloak up in its jaws.

Things seemed to pass in slow motion for Caril. He was overcome by instinct again, his whole body flooded with primal fear and… aggression? The dragon turned towards Caril and Hadvar. Caril drew his sword.

"What are you doing?" shouted Hadvar. He released his grip on Caril and shoved him hard backwards, "Run!"

The urge to taste the blood of the dragon was gone as fast as it had come over him.

"Get up, elf," the blond Stormcloak wrenched Caril up and dragged him across the road, away from the dragon.

The doors to the keep were within reach. Caril no longer cared that he would be by the side of a Stormcloak, he only cared that it would be a safer place than out in the open.

"YOL-TOOR-SHUL!"

The doors to the keep clanged closed just as the flames began to spurt through the cracks. Caril stood there, breathless, his mind retracing everything that had just occurred.

"Talos save him," the Stormcloak murmured, obviously speaking of Hadvar, who had likely saved them both at the cost of his own life. The Stormcloak straightened up and looked at Caril with a critical eye, "That dragon was going after you."

"I have no idea what you are talking about," replied Caril. He glanced around the room, hoping that there was something he could use to tend to his wounds. There was nothing.

"That whole time in the courtyard it was watching you."

"Does it matter who the dragon was looking at?"

"Shh," the Stormcloak suddenly pressed a finger to his lips and crouched down by a door to Caril's side. He gestured to the door, "Imperials."

The Imperials opened the door and the Stormcloak, predictably, went berserk on them. Had Caril felt he had the slightest influence over the man, he would have suggested reasoning with them rather than fighting.

Caril carefully stayed out of the ensuing battle. He was wary of depleting his magicka frivolously before he could get to a real alchemist for medicine. The Stormcloak was a skilled warrior. Without much effort and while wielding a dull axe, he slew all the Legionnaires, including the angry captain that ordered their executions.

"Come on, let's see if we can find a way out of here," said the Stormcloak.

Caril could not agree more. He followed the man down deeper into the keep. Unlike Hadvar, he showed no indication of wishing to help Caril with his leg. Though Caril would be very reluctant to accept the Stormcloak's help after the events of the last week.

"Can't you go any faster?" he asked, annoyed.

"If I was able, I would," snapped Caril.

The Stormcloak pushed open another door, "You're an elf, you know magic, right? Can't you just heal yourself or something?"

Caril groaned both from the man's magical ignorance and a twinge of pain that came from, well, most of Caril's body, "Even if magic worked like that, had you Nords not force fed me poison, I would be healing myself now. Does it look like I am enjoying this?"

The Stormcloak muttered something under his breath, then glanced around the room. Largely empty again. Caril was growing weary of this blind wandering. His resolve, along with his strength, was fading. His adrenaline rush was wearing off, the pain was beginning to return. His leg—his ankle, more specifically—throbbed painfully, his reopened cuts stung, it hurt every time he took in a breath, and his injured shoulder was excruciating. He needed medicine, food, and, above all, rest.

"Nothing again," the Stormcloak turned and walked out the door, "Let's try this way."

"It is not going to work," said Caril, tiredly.

"I don't see you helping." The Stormcloak kicked open another door. It was just a room full of bunks. He sighed, "Isn't there some kind of spell that can get us out of here?"

"No." Caril narrowed his eyes, "Wait…" Clairvoyance. It would be a risk, "It isn't what you have in mind but it might help."

"Oh yeah? Let me see this spell, then."

Caril closed his eyes. Despite the spell itself being easy to cast, Clairvoyance was a difficult spell to use. It directed a path to one's greatest want, however if the caster did not have a _very _clear image of what they wanted, the path shown would constantly change and twist. What did Caril want? He took a deep breath and channeled the magicka to the tips of his fingers. Home. He wanted to go home, sleep in his own bed, walk the streets of Alinor, feel the balmy, tropical air. Going home started by getting out of Helgen.

Opening his eyes, Caril was relieved to see the faint blue path trailing down the winding hallways. He took a step forward to follow the path and stumbled, the pain in his leg was more intense than before. With his free hand, he powered up a more generous healing spell. He could not continue on in his current state.

"Where are you going?" asked the Stormcloak skeptically.

Caril frowned, "I am the one casting the spell, only I can see it."

Though the spell helped only marginally, though it made progressing through the keep much less agonizing.

"Damn, more Imperials," said the Stormcloak when they came up to a door that voices were drifting out from, "Please tell me we don't need to go through here."

Of course they needed to go through that room, of all rooms. Like the previous time, Caril decided to stay hidden while the Stormcloak fought. He was in no shape to fight and any additional wounds would be disastrous, he could hardly move as it was.

"Hey, elf, get in here! It's a store room, bet we could find some potions."

That sounded good. Potions could cover some of what his spells did not. Again, he would not be fully healed without time, but it would be a great boon.

"Find them for me," said Caril, "I need to keep this spell running."

Partially that was true and partially he did not feel like he had the strength to search, even if he did have the necessary energy, it would be a waste of it.

"Find them yourself," snapped the Stormcloak.

"This spell takes concentration and if I have to cast it again, it might get us lost. Do you want that?"

The Stormcloak sighed and began to search the cupboards and barrels. A few minutes later, he came up to Caril with half a dozen potions.

"You are kidding me," said Caril. They were weak, watered down health, magicka, and stamina potions. They would hardly make a dent in anything.

"Take it or leave it, elf."

Caril took at least half the potions for himself. The Nord took a healing potion and a few stamina potions while Caril got the magicka potions and the rest of the healing ones. He drank them all down right there, despite the horrible taste they left in his mouth, because it eased the pain some and would allow him to maintain Clairvoyance for another ten minutes or more.

"Down the stairs," instructed Caril.

"Yeah, yeah," the man walked over to the stairs and began to descend, Caril following close behind, "Oh gods, it's a torture room."

Caril raised an eyebrow. Were the Stormcloaks supposed to be _against_ torture? A few other Stormcloaks seemed to have found their way down into the room and were battling the torturer and his assistant. The blond Stormcloak didn't wait long to join the fight and finish off even more Imperials.

"Sick," he heard one Stormcloak murmur.

Caril could not bear to walk in the room. He slumped down on the stairs and Clairvoyance flickered away. How could they think torture dishonorable and disgusting while they were quite willing to torture him? Were they immune from their own morals because they were the "true sons of Skyrim?"

"Hey, elf! Where'd you go?"

The blond Stormcloak reappeared at the base of the stairs, holding something in his hands.

"Elf? There's an elf with you, Ralof?" Ralof, that was his name. "Oh…"

"What's wrong with you now?" asked Ralof.

"Don't come any closer to me," said Caril. Lightning flared up in his hands as a warning. Ralof heeded it and took a step back.

"What's wrong with you?" Ralof asked angrily, "I was helping you!"

Caril jerked his head up and stared down Ralof, "Are you above your own morals or are you just plain stupid?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"To Oblivion with that!" shouted Caril, "You know full well what I mean!"

"I really don't."

Caril scoffed at Ralof.

"Fine." Ralof threw the object he was holding at Caril, some kind of fabric, "I guess I was wrong to think that one of your kind was halfway decent."

To say something like that? After what they had done to him? Caril was outraged. Instead of responding, he glanced down at what Ralof had meant to give him. He could feel the faint trace of magic emanating from them. Wizard robes. Caril furrowed his brow. Where had they found these?

They were a pitiful excuse for what real wizard robes could be but they were better than the ones he was wearing at the moment. The enchantments on his had almost completely faded away in the same manner that much of the cloth had been burned away.

They were not new, nor were they clean. They smelled of something awful, rotten… but they were of Nordic make. That meant they were warm and durable, something Caril needed.

"Where did these come from?" asked Caril.

"Do you really want to know?" snapped Ralof.

Caril sighed. Better than nothing, he figured. He stood slowly and discarded his singed cloak with a tiny bit of hesitance. He had owned it for years and wore it nearly everywhere, even in the summer heat. It had to go. It served no purpose to him anymore. It was worth more to him sentimentally than practically and, as he had learned thus far, Skyrim had no place for sentimentality.

He discarded his robes as well. Burned and no longer enchanted, they were firmly sentimental as well. He commissioned the robes and enchanted them himself back in Alinor. He was left standing in only his trousers and tunic, both of which he disappointedly discovered were burned severely as well. How had his clothes been charred beyond repair while his skin was barely touched by the intense flames?

Caril decided to throw away his tunic as well. They were extremely cheap, he could make five Septims in an hour to buy a new one. Replacing his trousers would be cheap as well but because his new robes would only fall to his knees rather than to his ankles, he decided to keep them, no matter how burned, until he could get a new pair.

"By Talos, what—" Ralof cut off abruptly. He grabbed Caril's arm and pulled him off the dark staircase and into the lit torture room. He looked horrified at what he saw, "What happened to you? Those are old wounds, you didn't get them today."

"No, I didn't get them today," Caril twisted his wrist out of Ralof's grasp. He felt horribly exposed under the gaze of half a dozen Stormcloaks while wearing only his trousers and boots, "I got them about a week ago, actually."

"But a week ago…"

The gears turning in the minds of the Stormcloaks were nearly audible. Caril was shocked. Were they not aware of what happened or were they just horrified by seeing the effects of torture by their own hands?

"A week ago, you were our prisoner," Ralof grabbed Caril's injured shoulder and spun Caril around. Caril let out a hiss of pain, "No…"

"Don't touch me," Caril jerked away.

Yes, he must have looked terrible. His arms, chest, back, every part of him was covered in yellowing bruises and seeping knife wounds. Had they not heard it when Ulfric made him scream and beg for mercy?

Caril did not care about giving these men the benefit of the doubt. He threw the worn robes over his head, fastened the many buckles hastily, and checked that his sword was firmly strapped to his waist before calming his mind and reactivating Clairvoyance.

He wanted out of this keep, this underground maze. He didn't know where he was going to go once he got out but at least it would be fresh air, not the dank, musty air he was breathing.

"We should follow him," said Ralof to the other Stormcloaks.

"But that way doesn't lead anywhere, it's just a cave."

Great. Caril sighed as he continued to walk. A cave. Caves did not have flat, even floors to walk on and getting to exits sometimes meant climbing though a tiny, jagged tunnel or scaling enormous cavern walls to the ceiling. Fate was not being kind on him.

Indeed, the walls of the keep soon transitioned to the weathered walls of an ancient cave. For some distance, it was still paved by the Legion, bridges with railings crossing the crevasses and such.

"Who's there?" came a voice down a dark path.

"Gods damn, how many Imperials are there down here?" whispered Ralof.

"Do _not_ kill them," Caril turned to face the small group of Stormcloaks. He would no longer tolerate anything from him. If they were going to leech off him to get out, they damn well better follow his orders.

"They tried to kill us, elf," replied Ralof, "Execute our true High King. We can't let them live."

Idiots. This was a life or death situation. A long lost dragon, _DRAGON_, was ravaging the town above them, everyone was severely injured, and they were lost in a cave. If there was a better time for compromise and peace, Caril was open for hearing it.

"Oh," Caril lowered his hand and discharged Clairvoyance again, "Seems my magicka has run out."

Maybe the threat of being forever lost in the cave would shake sense into the thick skulls of these Nords.

It did not. They turned on him instead.

"You traitor!" Ralof shouted, "You led us into a trap! I knew you were with _them_. We never should have trusted you."

"I—" Caril could not find the words to remedy the situation. He was backed against the wall, a sword pointed at his chest. Again, death was coming for him on swift wings.

He closed his eyes, panic bubbling up in his chest. He clung desperately to the dregs of his sanity that were fast flying out of his mind. Fear was his worst enemy. He was healed enough to take a bit of physical abuse, he thought, and well enough magicka had returned to destroy the small band of Stormcloaks but his fear… his anxiety was keeping him from acting.

He did not want to die. He would not.

Aggression and bloodlust overtook Caril's common sense and even his fear. The same emotions he felt towards the dragon in the moments before he was dragged into the keep. Only the desire to kill, destroy, maim was left.

Horrifying as it was, Caril was completely at its mercy. Sparks erupted around him, cloaking him in a deadly, protective coat. He snapped his eyes open and lunged towards the first Stormcloak he saw.

His body acted like the injuries were nonexistent. He felt power in his muscles that had never existed as he toppled the terrified Stormcloak to the ground and electrocuted him with his flaring magic. The man was sent into spasms as his heart was thrown out of rhythm.

Time seemed to shudder to a near halt as the next closest Stormcloak brought his heavy, iron battleaxe down towards Caril's head. Caril twisted out of the way in time to save himself, the blade of the axe only nicked his arm. It would have, should have hurt. The hit was unnaturally strong, like the blade was not going through skin and muscle alone. However, it did not hurt. Caril's senseless mind only registered it as an annoyance. As the swing hit the bottom of its arc, the man yelped and dropped his weapon. Metal and electricity never mixed well.

Caril turned, stood up and his eyes met the horrified eyes of the only woman of the group. She blinked away her stunned look and swung at Caril with her sword. She was strong, judging by how the blade chipped off part of the wall when it collided where Caril once stood.

Their eyes still locked, Caril watched as the grim determination in her pale eyes turned rabid and she struck out at Ralof, slashing him in the stomach.

At Ralof's betrayed scream, some of Caril's mind seeped back in. He stumbled when feeling partially returned to his body. Flee. Run. He could hear the Imperials rushing down the hall.

Ralof's weapon clashed with the crazed woman's, the remaining Stormcloak was trying to pull her away from him. With the last of his insanity fading away, Caril seized the moment and flickered out of sight as he cast Invisibility.

He ran. That was all he could do and he could hardly even do that. The corridor was wide enough he slipped through the charging Legionnaires and down into the dark bowels of the cave. What had he just done? Had he lost it from only a few weeks in Skyrim?

How? How had he done what he just did?

Above the murders he had just committed without a second thought, what scared Caril the most was that what he had just done did not feel like his sanity had completely fallen away for a moment. It felt as if he was still there, just that he _wanted_ to kill. The crazed state he had just fallen into felt irrevocably _him_, like some aspect of himself had just reared its ugly head for the first time and was now soothing him into a state of numbness to what he was apparently capable of.

They were going to kill him. It was defense.

Caril came into a room full of angry spiders and immediately ducked through a narrow passage where they couldn't reach. He hoped he wouldn't have to follow Clairvoyance for much longer. He was exhausted and felt that he would collapse soon. At the very least, he had to make it to the entrance of the cave before that time came.

A bear was the next thing Caril desperately tried to avoid conflict with. Thinking it was a mossy boulder, he walked too close and aggravated it. Luckily, it had not yet turned to face him when he cast another Invisibility spell and crept away.

Within the hour, Caril's heart fluttered in delight when he saw the last dregs of daylight filtering into the cave. He made it out alive and, more or less, no worse for the wear.

A truly happy grin split his bruised face as he emerged into the sunset. Alive. He was alive!

* * *

I have a bit more to say than usual, so I'll thank everybody to start with, in case you don't want to read everything else. I appreciate all the support I'm getting for this story. You don't know how much it means to me to check my email and have a new review/fave/alert waiting for me. I enjoy writing this story and it makes me feel more motivated to continue when I know others are enjoying it, too.

On with the longer comments...

So, you heard about FFN's new policy to erase fics based off content and moderate it closely from now on, I assume? If you are against it like I am, sign an e-petition (link in my profile, the site kept removing part of the link) protesting this. It's only a few days old and has 20,000 signatures. Imagine the pressure FFN is feeling and will feel in the future if this number keeps going up?

Ultimately, I understand FFN's intentions but I feel their actions will get out of hand. Instead of sticking to their own policies to begin with, why are they now suddenly returning to them? Are they unable to create an age filter like livejournal, for example? Isn't it better to adapt to a situation than suddenly think they can fix the problem they caused?

Notes on the story...

Caril's "dragon" side stirred in him as you can tell. For now, the two aspects of him are almost separate entities that do not exist together. As Caril gets closer to his Dragonborn identity, the two will meld together, ultimately becoming one in the far-flung future.

There will be no inner conversations between the dragon and Caril. I find that idea contrived and a weak excuse for angst. I haven't seen it often in Skyrim fics but far too often in others where there is a darker aspect to a particular character. The dragon is a part of Caril, not a separate sentient being living inside him.

There will be certain triggers initially for which side of Caril is dominant at for about the first half of the story. For example, a (non-spoiler) trigger is Ondolemar. Caril will revert to his "true" self when around Ondolemar.

Also, the dragon side of Caril is NOT completely bonkers, despite what it may seem. Caril was panicked, so his darker side was as well. His darker side is just willing and able to take extreme measures to ensure survival. At this point in the story, Caril possesses only the "flight" instinct and his dark side only has the "fight" instinct, this causes unbelievable irrationality within Caril for now.

Anyway, thanks again, everyone! I appreciate the support! I'll have the next chapter out soon!


	4. Chapter 3

Ultimately, I rewrote the entirety of this chapter from scratch. I decided to expand on Caril's recovery and tried to flesh out some of the characters some more than I originally had written. This chapter has a significantly lighter mood than the others so far, although this is about as light as the story will get.

* * *

**? Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril groaned as a throb of pain surged through his body. He could not… he did not remember. His eyes fluttered open. Where was he? A house? He did not know the house from anywhere.

"Finally awake, then?"

Caril jolted up upon hearing the accented Nordic. He almost immediately fell back over, his head swimming with pain from every resisting muscle.

"Yeah, you're awake."

Caril blinked away the water clouding his vision and looked around wearily. A Bosmer man was watching him from a chair. He tilted his head to one side and raised his eyebrows, "I have to ask what in Oblivion happened to you, you know. I found you passed out in the middle of the road halfway between here and Falkreath."

"I—" Caril's voice wavered slightly, "Stormcloaks attacked my horse and…"

"And?" the Bosmer's expression turned more serious than it had been.

Caril gazed up at the thatched ceiling. Had all that really happened? It seemed so surreal. The torture was still fresh in his mind but the dragon? The dragon had to be a hallucination of his panicked mind.

"You know what, I think your body speaks for yourself," he stood up and crossed the tightly packed room to the fireplace, where he tossed another log in, "You have a name?"

Caril sat up slowly this time, careful not to agitate anything, "It's… Tiralyn."

The Bosmer stood and walked up to Caril, crouching down beside him and holding is hand out, "Faendal." Cautiously, Caril shook Faendal's hand, "How did you end up in the middle of nowhere, anyway? There aren't any Stormcloak camps nearby."

"It's a long story." In truth, Caril did not really want to retell the story to anyone, least of all someone he didn't know.

"Are you planning to go somewhere?" asked Faendal. He crossed his arms over his chest and gave Caril a smug look, "I'd frankly be impressed if you could stand of your own volition right now."

Caril outwardly flinched at the stinging truth. He was going nowhere for a long time. Sore muscles, remedially patched wounds, and broken bones would keep him firmly planted where he was.

Silence fell over the tiny house as Faendal seemed to catch the hint that Caril did not wish to speak. Caril was relieved, he was allowed to simply stare down into his lap and think. A long time passed and Caril felt he had gotten nothing accomplished with thinking. Most of the time he was simply staring, his mind oddly blank. Maybe that was more a blessing than anything.

Eventually, it seemed that the Bosmer could no longer keep his mouth shut about anything. He was soon sitting cross-legged on the floor by Caril and rambling about his most recent hunting trip. It was not helping Caril soothe his mind in the least. Faendal's voice simply did not fade into the background as the voices of so many others did when Caril lost interest in the conversation. At some point, Faendal even slipped back into Bosmeris while recounting a tale where he was nearly eaten by a bear, Caril could only pick out bits and pieces of the one-way conversation. It seemed Faendal was originally from a part of Valenwood that had an extremely regionalized version of the language that was hard to understand for even Caril, where Bosmeris was his second most spoken language.

He was growing tired again, his body was demanding rest from a mind that did not want to give it. Long since Faendal had started rattling off stories, Caril laid down on his back again rather than straining himself any longer. This was going to be a long recovery.

"_Not to mention that stupid old bat mother of Sven's was shouting about seeing a dragon. Stark raving mad, that one—"_ _That_ caught Caril's attention. He sat up again and stared at Faendal, who shut his mouth and gave Caril a confused look at Caril's serious demeanor, "Was it something I said?"

"The dragon, someone saw it?"

Faendal raised his eyebrows, "Excuse me?"

"The dragon, what about the dragon?" Caril repeated.

"Someone was raving about seeing one, 'big as a mountain and black as night' she said, I think. She said it flew over a ruin nearby. Do you believe that nonsense?"

Caril did not immediately reply. He knew he had not hallucinated the dragon attack but how would he approach the subject without sounding like a madman? "What would you say if I told you I was there when the dragon attacked?"

"I would say you were crazy." Faendal stood up and walked across the room and back, a steady rhythm forming out of his pacing, "But… but your injuries aren't from Stormcloaks, at least not all of them." Faendal looked pointedly at the parts of Caril's skin that were not covered in bandages, the parts that showed the strangely even, red burns, "So I really don't know what I'd say."

"It attacked and destroyed Helgen," said Caril. He clenched his hands into fists to prevent them from shaking upon recounting the memory, "I got out through a cave that was connected to the keep."

"Why were you in Helgen? I thought you said you were captured by Stormcloaks. Helgen is Imperial." Faendal watched Caril carefully.

"I was in Helgen because the Stormcloak camp I was held at was raided by Imperials. They didn't seem to care that I am not a Stormcloak."

Faendal shrugged and whispered, "Probably thought you were some Thalmor agent."

"What?"

"The Imperials probably thought you were a Thalmor agent. I don't think the Empire would be able to resist being able to wash their hands of another one."

Caril simply stared. The audacity of the Empire!

"You aren't one, right? A Thalmor?"

"N-no, I am not."

A weight seemed to lift of Faendal's shoulders, he appeared much more relaxed, "Good."

"Good?" asked Caril.

"Valenwood isn't the happiest place anymore, I'll have you know," he answered, with another shrug, "Empire's in worse shape, though. I would go back but…" he drifted off, looking wistful. Shaking his head, he turned back to Caril, "So you claim there was a dragon that attacked and destroyed Helgen?"

Caril nodded once.

"I don't know. They've been dead since—when? The First Era or something? Seems like a stretch for them to come back thousands of years later and destroy Helgen, of all places. It's bit far-fetched, don't you think?"

"More than a little," agreed Caril.

**21 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril spent a few days mostly sleeping. He was drained from the events of the previous week, emotionally and physically. He was unsure why Faendal was being so hospitable towards him but he did not dwell on it much, having food and a roof over his head was enough for Caril not to care.

Soon, he was strong enough to walk, though only short distances. His leg was not broken after all, a fact for which Caril was immensely grateful, and was quickly healing. The bruises and burns were fast on their way out as well. Only a few injuries were severe, Caril noted: the stab in his leg from the first day being held by the Stormcloaks, the gash on his arm from the Stormcloak's battleaxe in Helgen, and his shoulder injury, also from Helgen.

Thankfully, none of those injuries were terribly painful after they were left for a few days to heal. Caril determined he did break his collarbone, though only mildly. To some extent, Caril wished he had broken his wrist or arm over his collarbone. He had the injury once when he was a child and it had been a long process to heal and return his arm to normal. A broken wrist meant he could at least use the arm to some extent before it repaired itself. His current arm, kept in a sling, was nearly useless for everything. The break was not on his dominant side, though. He was still able to write those reports for Elenwen, gods forbid.

Speaking of which, what was he going to do? He had nothing to report to Elenwen. He was quite sure he did not want to tell Elenwen of his experience at Helgen, or his capture by the Stormcloaks, for that matter.

"Are you just going to sit there and stare all day?" asked Faendal. He appeared at Caril's side by the bank of the river with his hands on his hips.

"As opposed to what? Sit and stare all day inside?" said Caril.

Maybe what he said was a bit harsh because Faendal went stomping off after that, but Caril was hardly in the mood to talk. For all he cared, Faendal could go and try to woo the woman he spoke about so often.

Caril dropped his hand into the river's icy water and his fingers went numb within seconds. He wished his worries would do the same, go numb. The thoughts about what he would tell Elenwen would not leave his mind. He could say he encountered unexpected hardship on the way to the Rift and did not make it in time. That was true but what would Elenwen care? It seemed all that mattered in her mind was what would aid her operation in Skyrim and what would not. That information would not.

He did not want to tell her he had let slip all the information about the Thalmor in Skyrim. He could be killed for that. Not that his execution on Elenwen's orders would be probable, but it was at least legal and plausible, and that worried Caril.

Elenwen did not need to know the circumstances that led him to be stuck in Whiterun Hold for an extended period of time. She would never know.

"You made it!"

Caril snapped out of his thoughts. It _sounded_ like it was directed at him but why would anyone have anything to say to him? He didn't know anyone but Faendal.

Caril looked around his shoulder and hated it when he saw the blond Stormcloak, Ralof, limping towards him. Anyone but him. Why could it not have been the friendly Legionnaire who genuinely tried to help Caril through?

"I thought for sure you were going die," he said.

Caril tried his best to ignore Ralof. He was unsure whether he could take anything the man could say to him. He needed to be alone right now, to dwell in his own thoughts, not hear those of others.

"Why did you attack us?" Ralof asked. He sounded tired but not tired enough to hide his accusatory tone, "We were helping you, you know."

Caril pressed his knees to his chest. He was haunted by what he did. Not that he regretted defending himself or killing the one Nord, he was frightened of what Skyrim was doing to him. Was he going to end up like Ancano soon? Spied on by his own because they doubted his sanity? With the sword pointed at him, in the dark haze of fear, he was consumed by… by…

"You were going to kill me," said Caril.

"We were going to do no such thing. You were our only way out of there—"

"—Obviously not your _only_ way."

Ralof ignored the comment, "We were panicked, yeah? It isn't unreasonable to think we were worried you were some Legionnaire."

"Idiot."

"Well excuse me for trying to figure out what happened to you."

Caril snorted with indignation. What could the stupid, ignorant, backstabbing human want to learn from him? What reason did he have to care? It was just some new form of tormenting him, surely. Caril stood up and tried not to show he was still limping on his injured leg as he stormed off, "I don't understand what more you want out of me. I'm just some evil High Elf, right? You are just going to stick a knife in my stomach the second I get too close."

"Are you kidding me? Why in Oblivion would y—"

Caril's positively vicious glare stopped Ralof dead in his tracks, "Why do I think that? What reason have you given me _not_ to think that?"

"Get out of here, Ralof."

Faendal to the rescue. Caril was unsure whether he was relieved someone else was taking over the argument or annoyed that Faendal, who was even more talkative than Ralof could ever hope to be, was back.

"I was just trying to—"

"—I don't care what you were trying to do, just leave."

"But—"

"—Don't care."

"He was—"

"—Go away, Ralof."

"Helgen—"

"—Leave."

"The dragon…" Upon looking at Faendal's unimpressed, angry expression, Ralof let out a loud groan and walked off, muttering a string of curses as he left.

Faendal sighed, some of the tension ebbed away from him, "You okay?"

Caril nodded curtly, "Fine."

He was not fine but he would be. In time, the memories would fade just like his physical wounds. For now, though, he woke up in a cold sweat from reliving the pain in his dreams just as often as his wounds.

"I would be a lot more sympathetic to their cause if stories like yours didn't keep cropping up every few months," said Faendal disappointedly.

"Stories like mine?" asked Caril.

Faendal nodded, "Word gets around that the Stormcloaks grab someone every so often, most commonly an Altmer, and extort information from them by any means necessary, even if they don't know anything."

"I—" Caril choked on his own words. How long had this been going on? Was it even a relief to know that he was not the only one?

"I'm not sure if I should be telling you this, Tiralyn, but I can't help but worry about the day Whiterun allies itself with the Stormcloaks."

"Why?" asked Caril. He pressed his lips in a thin line and watched Faendal intently.

"It's inevitable, most people know it. Jarl Balgruuf is a good man, keeping us out of the war so far but Whiterun isn't in the same situation as any of the other Imperial Holds. Whiterun is one of the wealthiest Holds in Skyrim, so we don't rely on the Empire's money or food like Haafingar and Falkreath, and we don't have the political pressure of the Markarth Incident forcing us to ally with the Empire, either. The war has been calm for a long time and it's only a matter of time before Ulfric asks for Balgruuf's allegiance or takes it by force…" Faendal trailed off for a moment and glanced regretfully at his tiny house, "It's hard to make ends meet now and if the Stormcloaks take over, it's only going to get harder."

"What about the Stormcloaks makes it harder?" Caril could imagine some aspects, like the damage done from a battle itself, but Faendal sounded like there was more to it than just that.

"You really haven't been here long, have you?"

Caril shook his head.

"They make it ridiculously hard for anyone who isn't a Nord to make money. It's an uphill battle for anyone to keep a shop open, you're constantly fighting with the new Jarl and guards from what I've heard. Riften used to be pretty rich from what I hear, but now they're struggling to keep half their economy going after the Stormcloaks took over. Not to mention what's happened to Windhelm," he shuddered quietly as if a bucket of icy water was dumped over him, "I give meat and fur to a good chunk of this town and it seems like it'll be nearly impossible with an untrusting Stormcloak presence."

Caril could sympathize with that. He could see Stormcloaks being resistant to a mer hunter trying to feed their new charges. They would not like it one bit. The lengths Faendal probably went through to earn the small town's trust, being only one of three non-Nords, let alone the only mer, would have to be done all over again if the Stormcloaks took over.

"Why are you helping me if you can't take care of yourself?" asked Caril as the thought drifted to his mind. Faendal was probably one of the poorest residents in the town, always wearing ill-fitting, ragged clothes, and hoarding everything he had the slightest chance of selling to _someone_ in his tiny home.

"Because you were going to be eaten by the wolves if I left you there and I thought, I don't know, seeing a different face for once would be a relief," he shrugged, attempting to make the conversation more casual.

Caril had tenfold more respect for Faendal at that moment. He was grating at times and too talkative for Caril's liking but he was the first honest person he'd met so far in Skyrim, "Why a relief?"

"Because I have to face the facts at some point, the only reason half this town tolerates my presence is because they'd go hungry without me. Nords don't understand that hunting with an axe doesn't work and there's a finesse to it that they just don't, or won't, understand," said Faendal. He shrugged again, "A few people are nice like the blacksmith and his nephew, before he went off to join the Legion, and the Valerius siblings, even Ralof is halfway decent but still…"

"Were you poor even before you came here?" asked Caril. He found it hard to believe that, unless under extreme circumstances, anyone would chose to come and live under such conditions.

"Yes, but not to this extent. My family worked at a vineyard, a big one, and we were given everything we needed if we worked there for less pay. It was comfortable." Faendal sat down on the ground at long last, it didn't take Caril long to mimic the movement and sit opposite him, "Were you?"

"Was I poor?" asked Caril. With Faendal's nod, Caril shook his head, "No. I wasn't. It was hard for anyone who lived in Alinor to be poor."

"You lived in Alinor?" Faendal's eyebrows almost disappeared into his hairline, "The capital city? No way! You must've… I don't even know… How rich were you, anyway?"

Very. A good deal of family inheritance and a well-paying job at the Institute left him in one of the wealthiest brackets of the city, "Somewhat, I suppose. I had some money from my family and my job paid well."

"What did you do?"

"I was a scholar at the Institute," answered Caril. He did not need to say that he was among the twenty most well-respected magic scholars in the Dominion, top hundred in Tamriel.

Faendal laughed and shook his head. There was some resentment in his voice but it was mostly amused, "A scholar," he snorted, "That kind of thing doesn't pay here. It's a bit ridiculous, all you do is read books and you would probably get paid in a month ten times what my family would make in a year at that vineyard."

Caril could not help but agree with Faendal. He enjoyed the money he made but thought that maybe some of it could have been given to a person who actually needed it. He had hundreds of thousands of Septims worth of gold, jewels, and other valuable things lying in vaults in the banks and in his home that he never thought twice about using, let alone for charity. He was not alone. Every member of Ondolemar's family was in the same situation as Caril, very few members of the Institute could say did not have more money than they needed, Alinor was one of, if not the richest city in the world.

"I've been fine without books my whole life. I just don't get why you were basically paid because you could read."

"You're illiterate?"

"Does that surprise you?"

Not particularly, if Caril was brutally honest to himself. An unsightly amount of people were illiterate in Summerset, speak nothing of the rest of Tamriel. Places like Skyrim, Elsweyr, and Black Marsh were the worst in terms of literacy, their society worked around the day to day survival while education, especially the difficult task of reading, took a back seat, but the rest of the world suffered from it as well. Valenwood was no exception.

"I don't have the money to spend on books as it is, so why would I bother trying to learn at this point?"

Faendal made a decent point, there was no way to make a book cheap and affordable for someone like him.

**24 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

There was nothing Caril could do, he liked Faendal. After talking more personally with him, Caril did not see Faendal as the chatty elf who could not take a hint so much as the chatty elf who could not take a hint but was at least amiable.

Caril found himself following Faendal around while he ran his day to day errands, much to Faendal's annoyance. That annoyance turned into seething anger when they bumped into Camilla Valerius, the woman Faendal was disgustingly infatuated with.

She was pretty—for a human. Caril gave her that much.

The world's deadliest snake could not have been more poisonous than the looks Faendal was giving Caril when Camilla promptly started doting all over his injuries. Caril had no interest in turning a love-triangle into a love-whatever but an unusual sense of wanting to tease Faendal let him entertain the human woman for nearly an hour.

"Camilla, I think he will be fine," said Faendal.

Caril was wearing an utterly bored look on his face as the woman tended to the gash on his arm. He was completely shirtless and that fact very clearly upset Faendal. Caril wondered why, in truth. The only reason his ungainly skinny body had not grown fat was because of the amazing metabolism in all Altmer. He was not particularly fit or muscled, the woman had really nothing to look at, though Faendal did not seem to care.

"It can't hurt, Faendal. I'll be done in a moment," she replied.

"Look, it's healing! How much more medicine does he need?" Faendal pointed to some of the cuts on Caril's chest that were clearly healing over.

"Some, actually," corrected Caril. He glanced over the shelves of items in the shop, "I need an antidote for magicka poison."

"I can see what we have in stock," said Camilla. She stood up briefly and shouted up the stairs of their home for her brother, who came stumbling down the stairs a moment later, wiping his hand on a grubby rag, "Check our stock to see if we have an antidote for magicka poison."

"I doubt you would have the strength I need," said Caril.

"'I doubt you have the strength…'" mocked Faendal under his breath, "What, Tiralyn? Do you expect me to pay for that, too? Magicka poison my ass."

"Stop it, Faendal," said Camilla warningly, "If you two can't afford anything we have, we'll figure out something to pay it off later. How does that sound?"

Faendal did not try to hide his sarcasm, "Wonderful."

"Again, I highly doubt you will have what I need."

"Nonsense," she waved her hand dismissively, then started to bandage his arm with new linens, "We have good stock here, get shipments from Arcadia in Whiterun. She's as good an alchemist as any."

"I highly doubt you have what I need," Caril was growing tired of repeating himself. A tiny store in a tiny town would not have an antidote that would cost customers easily over a hundred Septims a dose.

The poison was wearing off on its own, slowly. He felt his magicka was about a third restored but that was not nearly enough. He would not feel safe and confident until he felt all of it flowing through him properly again.

"If you don't have any confidence in what we're selling, fine," she finished bandaging his arm, shoved the old mage robes back in his arms, and gave a huff, "Then you are welcome to leave."

"No, Camilla," Faendal sighed, "He didn't mean it like that!"

"I did," Caril corrected. Maybe the next few days he would not follow Faendal around. Too much social interaction with rather uncivilized people left him on his last nerve, "Someone like me does not get left with only a sliver of their normal magicka for weeks because of anything but the most virulent poisons."

Camilla raised an eyebrow and folded her arms over her chest, "Who do you think you are? Arch-Mage of Winterhold?"

"_Might as well be,"_ muttered Caril in his native tongue.

Faendal understood him, "Oh, you arrogant bastard."

**26 Rain's Hand, 4E 201**

Caril and Faendal got over their argument with Camilla rather quickly. Faendal was too lovesick not to stumble back into the shop and apologize profusely for Caril's behavior, Camilla was too forgiving not to take the insult to heart, and Caril was too stubborn to admit he had done any wrong and simply acted like nothing had ever happened from that point on. The incident may have left a dark smudge on their growing relationship, but neither Caril nor Faendal seemed to care after that day passed.

"Where are you going?" asked Faendal.

Caril stood up and walked to the door, a frown set deeply on his face, "How far is it to Whiterun from here?"

"A week."

Caril was shocked. Everyone spoke of the city like it was around the corner. A week away? That was absurd. He seriously had to rethink going there.

"In your condition at least," said Faendal, "I could make it in a day and a half."

Caril pinched the bridge of his nose between his fingers, "How long does it take if you have a horse?"

"We don't have a horse."

"With a horse?" repeated Caril.

"Less than a day."

Caril needed a horse. That was the only way he would be able to travel anywhere for some time. If he had a horse, he would be able to travel to that alchemist in Whiterun, maybe find something stronger there. But… a horse. There were a total of three horses in the entire village, making Caril's chances of getting one without thieving very low. One belonged to the blacksmith, Alvor, one horse to the owner of the mill, Hod, and one to the innkeeper, Delphine.

"We don't have a horse, idiot," said Faendal, following Caril out the door and into the early morning light.

"We?" said Caril, suddenly. Faendal had been referring to them in the plural?

Faendal looked a bit affronted, "You wouldn't last one minute out on the plains. If you're going to Whiterun, I'm going with you."

"Then we are finding ourselves a horse," said Caril. He would admit it only to himself, Faendal might prove helpful if they got into a tight situation.

"Where?" Faendal continued to trail him down the street, "You think Delphine is going to give you her horse? Dorthe loves Alvor's old mare too much for us to have her. You might as well throw Hod right out before you even ask. There is just no way."

"We will work something out, lease out the beast if we have to," Caril approached the blacksmith's house. This man was the most likely to give them anything.

"Lease it with what money?" Faendal shouted, "You said you lost all the money you were carrying! I don't have any, if that's what you're suggesting."

Caril ignored him as he trudged up the steps to the blacksmith's. Even early in the morning, most of the town was already hard at work.

"How can I help you?" he asked, glancing between Faendal and Caril.

Faendal sighed, "Don't listen to him, sir. He—"

"—We need to borrow your horse," Caril cut straight to the chase.

"Pardon?" Alvor stopped pounding on a sword and simply stared at them, "My horse?"

"We need to get to Whiterun and I cannot with my leg," he gestured at his splinted ankle.

"We don't need to go to Whiterun—"

"—Would you rather have me living off you for another few weeks, Faendal?"

Faendal groaned and covered his face with his hands, "Fine. We do need to get to Whiterun. It'll only be for a few days, we'll bring her right back, sir."

"I'm sorry," Alvor shook his head apologetically, "I can't let you have her."

"You might not know him," Faendal pointed at Caril, "But you know me. I won't let anything happen to her."

"It has nothing to do with trust, Faendal. I trust you completely. It's just too much of a liability," he said. He sounded genuinely sorry for rejecting them, "We were planning to take her to market next month to sell her. We just can't risk that kind of money right now, I'm sorry."

Sighing, Faendal turned to leave. Caril grabbed his shoulder to stop him, "Wait a moment." Faendal looked at him, confused. Caril turned back to the blacksmith, "I don't know how much your horse is worth but…" he drew the elven blade at his hip and held it out to the blacksmith, biting his lip as he did so, "You may keep the sword if we do not return with your horse."

Alvor took the sword from Caril and examined it carefully, testing it's weight, feeling the blade with his thumb. The last thing Caril wished to give up was the sword, it was all that stayed with him through the last few weeks, but he needed to get to the city.

"It is brand new, never once been used, made in Alinor, I believe," said Caril.

"Where did you get something like this?" Alvor scrutinized Caril, obviously looking for any traces that he had stolen it.

"It was a gift from a friend of mine," answered Caril sincerely. He hoped the sword would convince Alvor, "It is all I have left, it's the last thing I want to lose. I swear the horse will be brought back if you will return my sword when the horse has been brought back."

For a moment, everything was silent other than the flow of the river behind the house. Alvor again scrutinized both Faendal and Caril.

Reluctantly, he nodded, "Very well, on one condition."

"What's that?" asked Faendal.

"You tell the Jarl about all these dragon rumors and get some guards sent down to Riverwood. If it's true, we're wide open for an attack."

"Fine," said Faendal.

Caril unfastened the scabbard from his belt and handed it over to Alvor as well, who sheathed the weapon and stowed it against the wall of the house.

"You will have your sword back when I have my horse," said Alvor with a nod, confirming their deal.

"Good, let's get going, Tiralyn. Might as well, we have nothing better to do today," Faendal trotted down the stairs, towards where the horse was tethered.

Caril followed him, giving a quiet word of thanks to the blacksmith. He noticed Faendal standing there in front of the horse, the top of his head only came up to it's chin, and looking up at it dumbstruck. The equipment for the horse was in a neat pile nearby but Faendal was too entranced by the enormous beast. With a shaking hand, he reached out to pet its nose.

"Don't do that," said Caril.

Faendal jerked away and looked at Caril, a tiny bit of fear on his face, "Why?"

"You'll scare her. She cannot see you right there, stand a bit to one side and you will be fine." Caril reached the horse and gently stroked its neck, "Have you never been around horses?"

"No," said Faendal after a moment of hesitation, "Not much use in Valenwood and I've… I've kept my distance since. A bit too big, really."

"Very well," Caril turned to the stack of equipment, "I will need your help saddling her, you need two hands to do it."

"What?"

It was a long process, convincing Faendal that the horse was not going to hurt him while it was tied up. Maybe if Caril had not been taller than the horse he was about to ride and had only come up to its withers, he would be more frightened of it. The horse was at least two hands smaller than the one he was given upon leaving the Embassy. Eventually, the horse was ready to go except for its bridle.

Faendal adamantly refused to put it on, sure the wizened, old mare would bite off one of his fingers. This left Caril to wrestle the horse into the bit with only one and a half hands while Faendal ran off to gather his bow and arrows. He would have called his injured arm a hindrance to getting the horse into the bit if it would not have been almost entirely impossible with only one hand.

When Faendal came back, Caril had to be smug about getting the horse in its bridle with his one and a half hands, losing no fingers while he was at it.

"Get on now," said Caril, jerking his head towards the saddle.

Faendal glanced at the horse and back at Caril, and back at the horse once more for good measure, "What? You've got to be kidding me, Tiralyn."

"What was the point of getting the horse if we are not going to use it to make the trip faster?" asked Caril. He led the horse down the street a few paces and stopped it by the stairs to the blacksmith's, "Get on."

"Fine," said Faendal through clenched teeth. He stomped up the steps of the blacksmith's and clambered onto the horse from there. He looked awkwardly small on top of the still enormous draft horse. He glanced down at his dangling legs, "I can't reach the… the…" he pointed down.

"Stirrups?" Caril raised his eyebrows, "You aren't supposed to. We are speeding up this trip, remember? Move forward in the saddle as far as you can."

Faendal did, "What is the point of—hey, what are you doing?"

Caril swung his leg over the body of the horse behind Faendal and grabbed the reins of the horse.

"This does not work, get off."

"Stop whining. You volunteered to go to Whiterun with me. If you no longer wish to accompany me, you may get off." After making the proper adjustments to the Caril steered the horse into the road and headed north, in the direction of the city.

People were gawking at them as they went down the street. Even Alvor smirked and turned back to his work chuckling. Sven, the bard competing with Faendal for Camilla Valerius's attention, wolf-whistled and shouted, "Found your true love, eh, Faendal? This mean you're leaving Camilla to me like you always should've?"

"Shut up, Sven! Shut up!" screeched Faendal, his face flushed profusely red.

Caril was completely unfazed by the comments and stares. Yes, Faendal and he were sitting uncomfortably close on the horse, Faendal's back pressed flush against Caril's chest, but he could care less. The scandals that came from Alinor's circles were a dozen times worse, often more profane, too.

"Calm down."

Faendal writhed in the seat, trying to move away from Caril, "I will not calm down, this is not going to work."

"Fine, you are welcome to get off," said Caril, "I am the one that needs the horse."

"I will."

Faendal slid off the horse with ease and Caril wondered why he was so reluctant to get on in the first place. Bosmer had always been known for their strength and balance, the two things needed to aggressively ride horses.

Caril had to slow the horse to let Faendal keep up on foot. The old horse was not as strong as the one he previously rode, he would not have dared to run it from Riverwood to Whiterun but holding a faster pace would have been nice.

As they descended out of the protective mountains and pine forests that contained Riverwood, they were met with a bitter wind on the plains. It was no wonder why not many people chose to live out in the open. Whiterun was seemingly placed for convenience, being nearly in the dead center of Skyrim, rather than livability.

"There's a reason why I never hunt out here," said Faendal. He wrapped his arms around his body and ducked his head down, "Gods, it's cold."

Caril was shivering himself, even his warmer robes gave him no protection from the wind, "Are you absolutely certain you will not ride with me? We will not see anyone for some time."

"I'm starting to have second guesses," he said.

Faendal tolerated the wind for about an hour.

"I'm glad it's still winter." Caril raised an eyebrow at the comment. Still winter? It was late Rain's Hand, well into spring. Faendal shook his head and grabbed the saddle blanket, "Move over."

Caril moved back as far as he could on the crude saddle without falling off and Faendal jumped on again, "Hold on somewhere, these horses run less than smoothly."

Faendal nodded and knotted his hands in the horse's mane as Caril nudged her steadily faster. Riding together on the horse did nothing to ease the chill but it was encouraging to know they would have to weather it out for less time.

Whiterun grew closer and closer on the horizon and the far reaches of its farmland was beginning to pass by quickly. It would not be long before they were within the walls of the city.

He slowed the horse down to an easier pace as they entered the village-like clusters of houses surrounding the walls. A group of heavily armed warriors dashed past them with their weapons drawn, ran down the street, turned a corner, and vanished, leaving a group of bewildered people in the street staring after them.

"Companions," muttered Faendal.

"Companions?" Caril pushed the horse forward again, the city gates were in sight.

"Warrior guild based in Whiterun. Not sure what to think of them. They say they're all for honor but then just act like mercenaries, doing jobs where the pay is highest," answered Faendal.

The gates loomed over them before they knew it and Faendal hopped off the horse, staring up at the enormous wooden doors, "Why are they closed? I've never seen the gates closed."

"City's closed with these rumors of dragons," answered one of the guards, "Residents only."

"Closed?" said Caril, "How can you close a city?"

"But I'm a resident," shouted Faendal, "I live in Riverwood, I should have access to the city like everyone else!"

"No exceptions, they're the orders of the steward." The guard shrugged, then waved at them dismissively, "Turn around now and don't cause any problems."

"Don't cause problems?" Caril had lost his temper. This was ridiculous. Rumors were enough to put an entire city on high alert? Yes, the rumors were true, but how would walls protect against a dragon? Dragons flew and it was not like anyone had a high chance of smuggling one through the gates no matter how well they disguised it, "You are the one causing problems by putting the city under lock and key. I need to get into the city for medicine, am I going to be forced to go all the way to Falkreath or Riften?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just following orders."

"Orders? How is a gods damned dragon being kept out of your city by a wooden gate?"

Faendal shot Caril a dirty look, "Tiralyn, stop it." Then, he turned to the guard, "Is there nothing we can say to get into the city? He came from Helgen, the town destroyed by the dragon, he needs a real healer and real medicine."

"You survived Helgen?" the guard gasped. Caril could guess quite easily the guard was gaping at him underneath his face-covering helmet, "I heard there were no survivors, town's completely destroyed, we could see the smoke from here."

"I know of one other who survived," answered Caril, "He is still in Riverwood, in better shape than I am, in fact."

"Maybe…" the guard spun around in circles a few times, looking between Caril, Faendal, the gate, and the other guards, "Maybe…"

"Yes?" asked Faendal.

"Sorry about the confusion," the guard finally said, straightening himself up and walking confidently to the gate, "Never seen your faces before. You're cleared to go in."

Faendal nodded his thanks to the guard and jogged through the cracked gates, followed closely by Caril on the horse. Whiterun was even bigger than Falkreath and Markarth, the streets were crowded and loud. It was utter chaos. Not the panicked kind, just the kind one sees in the streets of what was probably one of the most populous cities in the province.

"Stay close to me," said Faendal. He had to raise his voice to reach Caril's ears, "We should go see the Jarl first, maybe we can get something out of visiting him."

Caril nodded and drew the horse to flank Faendal, who grabbed hold of part of the saddle for good measure. As street after street passed, Caril could see Faendal's point about the city being wealthier than the others. It surely looked more affluent than Falkreath, the people were well-dressed, the houses were not falling to the weather, and the streets were cleanly paved. As they rose in altitude, though, Caril could see the change of classes. Manual laborers were lucky to live within the city walls, craftsman and shop-owners lived in the lower tier, businessmen and nobility lived surrounding the Jarl's palace.

"Dragonsreach," Faendal pointed just up the hill from them, "People say it was built as a prison for a dragon rather than a palace."

Caril vaguely wondered why it was made out of wood. If dragons breathed fire, wood burned, and the building was made from wood… Maybe those who built it simply did not want the extra work of bringing stone up to the top of the large hill it was situated on. Even so, that extra work would have been put to good use bringing rocks up the hill.

"We'll have to walk up from here," said Faendal, upon reaching a railing where several other horses were tied.

Caril tied the mare and departed with Faendal up the enormous flight of stairs up to Dragonsreach. He was gasping in pain as he reached the top. His body was not interested in walking against the forces of gravity.

"Halt!"

Oh, not again. Caril barely stifled an outburst at the guard. Whiterun was not improving his mood in the least. He hoped that getting the medicine he needed would help. That would at least take the edge off his nerves. Maybe he could even use his magicka to quicken the pace of his healing.

"We need to speak with the Jarl. He survived Helgen." Faendal pointed at Caril, "We really need this, sir."

"Very well, on your way," the guard reluctantly pushed the door to the palace open.

Caril was pleasantly surprised to find the inside of Dragonsreach was warm, comfortably so. He no longer felt the need to shiver in the bitter wind.

"Whoa, I've never been in here." Faendal trotted up the large staircase, gazing straight up at the arched ceiling as he did so.

Caril's limp had become pronounced when he reached the top of the stairs. He winced every time he put his injured foot on the floor. He would have rather hopped all the way up had he not still felt the immense fatigue Helgen left him with.

"State your business for approaching the Jarl."

Again!

This time, Caril did not hear Faendal respond. Caril glanced up and nearly laughed at the sight in front of him. Faendal had gone white as a sheet when a Dunmer woman held the tip of a sword to his chest. Faendal looked as if he were about to faint.

He might have done just that had Caril not managed to speak in time, "I'm from Helgen…" he winced, "The dragon."

"And who is he?" the Dunmer turned back to Faendal, examining him up and down.

"He helped me get here."

A third voice broke the tension immediately, "Let them come, Irileth."

Surprised, she sheathed her sword and beckoned to both Faendal and Caril, "Very well, I've got my eyes on you."

Faendal let out a long, slow breath and trotted over to Caril, taking some of Caril's weight off his injured leg. As they walked after the Dunmer woman, Caril noticed Faendal was using him as if he were a shield to face the Jarl. He was staring pointedly downwards and the way his shoulders were hunched over as he held onto Caril's waist gave away his nervousness. Had Caril been an unimportant, impoverished manual worker his entire life, he may have sympathized with Faendal. However, with his schedule of regularly speaking to important and powerful people made Faendal looked ridiculous.

"Is it true, that you survived Helgen?" asked the Jarl.

Caril hesitated as he watched the Jarl on his throne. Despite his laid-back posture, he looked uneasy, stressed, and tired. Were the dragons really that worrying? They were not undefeatable, as proved in the distant past.

"Yes."

"And was there really a dragon?"

"Yes."

"And you saw it with your own eyes, then?"

How many times did Caril have to repeat himself?

"Yes."

The Jarl slumped in his chair and stifled a sigh, "If these rumors are true, then I've left most of my hold unprotected."

"Sir, if I may," the man off to the side of the Jarl—who Caril figured to be the steward—interrupted, "I advise you to exert caution before sending any men out to the hold. Others might see it as provocation. Jarl Siddgeir, especially so."

"And Siddgeir will be the most understanding. After all, he just lost Helgen to a dragon. Send a courier if you must, I will not stand idly by while a dragon threatens my people." The Jarl was standing by the end of his speech, towering over his steward. He was tall for a Nord, he could look Caril more eye-to-eye than anyone he had met so far.

The steward bowed his head again, "Y-yes, sir. I will send couriers to Jarl Igmund and Jarl Siddgeir at once."

"Good," the Jarl turned his attention back to the Dunmer woman, "Irileth, send out your men at once. Have them leave by dawn tomorrow."

"Yes, my Jarl."

With his orders given, the Jarl turned once again to look at Caril and Faendal, "You two sought me out on your own initiatives—" Alvor's initiative, rather, but Caril was not going to say otherwise, "—You have done Whiterun a great service, I won't soon forget that."

"Thank you, sir," said Faendal. He tightened his hold on Caril's waist ever so slightly and took a small step backwards, indicating to Caril that he wanted nothing more than to leave.

"No, thank you. What are your names?"

"It's Tiralyn and—"

"—Faendal, sir."

"Well, what would you two ask of me? It is only fair that I repay you on behalf of Whiterun, for your services." Caril noticed the Jarl's eyes carefully trailing over him.

"We don't require anything, sir," said Faendal.

"Nonsense." The Jarl approached them, almost casually, making Faendal tense up even more, "At the very least, it looks like you could use a decent healer, Tiralyn."

Caril nodded. He would ask the healer if he had the necessary potions, although he doubted there would be someone who had greater capabilities in Restoration magic than he in the city.

"Proventus, send for Danica Pure-Spring," said the Jarl.

"Right away, sir."

"How about we have you two fitted for armor? It can never hurt to own a set."

"I won't speak for Faendal," said Caril. He glanced down at his worn robes, "If you wish to go down that path, I would prefer a new set of wizard robes. These… well, I had to use what I could find at the time."

"So be it. And what of you, Faendal?"

It was somewhat amusing to Caril to see Faendal, who never knew when to stop taking, was staring at the Jarl, wide-eyed and speechless. Giving no answer in this situation would be rude, contrary to the thoughts that might be going through Faendal's head.

Caril elbowed him hard in the chest. Faendal shook himself out of his stupor, "Whatever you wish, sir. The armor is fine."

* * *

I hope I made the idea of followers realistic. I understand hirelings and the Housecarls but some of the other followers... not so much. Why would Faendal chose to drop his whole life to follow you around if all you did was deliver a letter for him? Either way, he is not going to stick around for much longer, I just can't realistically expect him to want to follow Caril around all the time.

Also, I went back and re-edited the previous chapters. I am not always so good at noticing tiny mistakes and awkward wordings. I tend to notice one sentence that could be rephrased or a missing comma or such each time I reread previous chapters. I think I'll do this periodically, because each time I read my story, I notice things I previously overlooked. No major changes were made, though.

Moving on, thanks again to all of you who have chosen to read this story, I'm really grateful. I'll have the next chapter out soon.


End file.
